Her Prayer.

    Low in the ivy-covered church she kneeled,
    The sunshine falling on her golden hair;
    The moaning of a soul with hurt unhealed
    Was her low-breathed and broken cry of prayer.

    "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, Thy wounded hand!
    I pray Thee, lay it on this heart of mine -
    This heart so sick with grief it cannot stand
    Aught heavier than this tender touch of Thine.

    "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let it press
    Here, where the hurt is hardest, where the pain
    Throbs fiercest, and the utter emptiness
    Mocks at glad memories and longings vain!

    "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, who long ago
    Slept by Thy mother's side in Bethlehem!
    Think of her cradling arms, her love-song low,
    And pity me when Thou dost think of them.

    "My baby girl, my pretty dear, I miss
    Morning and noon and night - her ways so wise,
    The patting of her soft, warm hands, the kiss,
    The cooing voice, the sunshine of her eyes.

    "I sleep, and dream she nestles close, my own,
    Her red mouth on my breast; I wake and cry.
    She sleeps out yonder in the dark, alone -
    My arms are empty and my bosom dry.

    "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, will surely bring
    Healing for this great anguish that I bear!
    A nursing babe, a little dimpled thing,
    God might have left her to her mother's care!

    "Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let me feel
    Its touch to-day, and past all doubting prove
    Thou hast not lost Thine ancient power to heal -
    Press out the bitterness, fill up with love!

    "O Babe that in the manger rude did sleep!
    O Prince of Peace, Thy tender wounded palm
    Still holds the oil of joy for those that weep!
    Still holds the comforting, the Gilead's balm!"

Jean Blewett

Jean Blewett was a Canadian author, journalist, and poet. Born in Scotia, Ontario, she became well-known for her poetry and was awarded the part of lyrical poet at the World’s Fair in Chicago, 1893. Her notable works were often published in literary magazines. Besides poetry, Blewett also wrote stories and worked as a journalist, gaining considerable respect in both fields. She passed away in Chatham, Ontario, in 1934. Her legacy remains a significant part of Canadian literary history.

Jean Blewett

The Song Of The Bells.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Wild Strawberries.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Sly Boy.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

A Song Of Harvest Home.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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The Mother.

As "Peace on earth!" the glad world sings one glorious Christmas morn,
"Peace, peace on earth! Good-will to men! Peace, peace! the Christ is born!"
As through the courts, the wondrous courts, of heaven hosannas ring,
As harpers strike their harps of gold and "Glory! Glory!" sing,
        Upon the City's threshold fair
        A woman steps, and lingers there.

The eyes she turns on Peter's face with unshed tears are dim,
"Tell Christ," she says, "a mother waits who fain would speak with Him."
Through all the music, far above the highest, grandest note
Of triumph, and of joy and praise, her soft voice seems to float;
        And hearing it, straight from His throne
        Comes down to her the Kingly One
        With shining face and eyes that hold
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Jean Blewett

Her Prayer.

She kneels with haggard eyes and hair
Unto the Christ upon the Cross:
Her gown is torn; her feet are bare.

What is this thing she begs of him,
The gentle Christ upon the Cross?
Her hands are clasped; her face is dim.

Is it forgiveness for her sin,
She asks of Christ upon the Cross?
And mercy for the soul within?

With anguished face, so sad and sweet,
She kneels to Christ upon the Cross:
Her arms embrace his nail-pierced feet.

Her tears run slowly down her face,
O piteous Christ upon the Cross!
And through her tears she sighs and says:

"The thing that I would crave of Thee,
O Christ upon the cruel Cross,
Is not a thing to comfort me.

"Thou, who hast taught us to forgive,
O tender Christ upon the Cross,
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Katie, Aged Five Years.

(ASLEEP IN THE DAYTIME.)

All rough winds are hushed and silent, golden light the meadow steepeth,
    And the last October roses daily wax more pale and fair;
They have laid a gathered blossom on the breast of one who sleepeth
    With a sunbeam on her hair.

Calm, and draped in snowy raiment she lies still, as one that dreameth,
    And a grave sweet smile hath parted dimpled lips that may not speak;
Slanting down that narrow sunbeam like a ray of glory gleameth
    On the sainted brow and cheek.

There is silence! They who watch her, speak no word of grief or wailing,
    In a strange unwonted calmness they gaze on and cannot cease,
Though the pulse of life beat faintly, thought shrink back, and hope be failing,
    They, like Aaron, "hold their peace."

Jean Ingelow

At The Sick Children's Hospital.

A little crippled figure, two big pathetic eyes,
A face that looked unchildish, so wan it was and wise;
I watched her as the homesick tears came chasing down each cheek.
"I had to come," she whispered low, "I was so tired and weak.
My spine, you know! I used to be so strong, and tall, and straight!
I went to school and learned to read and write upon a slate,
And add up figures - such a lot, and play with all my might,
Until I hurt my back - since then I just ache day and night.
'Tis most a year since I could stand, or walk around at all;
All I am good for now, you see, is just to cry and crawl."
Poor, pale-faced thing! there came to us the laughter gay and sweet
Of little ones let out from school, the sound of flying feet.
She listened for a moment, then turned her to the wall

Jean Blewett

Jessie.

    You miss the touch of her dear hand,
    Her laughter gay and sweet,
    The dimpled cheek, the sunny smile,
    The patter of her feet.

    The loving glances she bestowed,
    The tender tales she told -
    The world, since she has gone away,
    Seems empty, drear and cold.

    Dear, oft you prayed that God would give
    Your darling joy and grace,
    That pain or loss might never dim
    The brightness of her face.

    That her young heart might keep its trust,
    Its purity so white,
    Its wealth of sweet unselfishness,
    Her eyes their radiant light,

    Her fair, soft face its innocence
    Of every guile and wrong,
    And nothing touch to mar the joy
    And gladness of her song.

    God he...

Jean Blewett

Love's Sacrifice.

"And behold, a woman in the city, which was a sinner, when she knew that Jesus sat at meat in the Pharisee's house, brought an alabaster box of ointment and stood at his feet behind him weeping, and began to wash his feet with tears, and did wipe them with the hairs of her head."

    The eyes He turned on her who kneeling wept
    Were filled with tenderness and pity rare;
    But looking on the Pharisee, there crept
    A sorrow and a hint of sternness there.

    "Simon, I have somewhat to say to thee,"
    The Master's voice rang clearly out, and stirred,
    With its new note of full authority,
    The list'ning throng, who pressed to catch each word.

    "Master, say on," self-righteous Simon said,
    And muttered in his beard, "A sinner, she!"
    Marvelling th...

Jean Blewett