Jesus.

Where is poor Jesus gone?
    He sits with Dives now,
And not even the crumbs are flung
    To Lazarus below.

Where is poor Jesus gone?
    Is he with Magdalen?
He doles her one by one
    Her wages of shame!

Where is poor Jesus gone?
    The good Samaritan,
What does he there alone?
    He stabs the wounded man!

Where is poor Jesus gone,
    The lamb they sacrificed?
They've made God of his carrion
    And labelled it "Christ!"

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Francis William Lauderdale Adams (27 September 1862 – 4 September 1893) was an English writer, poet, dramatist, and social reformer. His literary work often reflected his radical socialist views. Adams lived a life marred by poverty and struggles with his health, eventually committing suicide at the age of 30. Despite his brief life, his contributions to literature and social thought remain significant.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Axiom.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

Epode. "On The Ranges, Queensland."

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

To India.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

To An Old Friend In England. "Esau."

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

English

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To The Christians.

Take, then, your paltry Christ,
    Your gentleman God.
We want the carpenter's son,
    With his saw and hod.

We want the man who loved
    The poor and oppressed,
Who hated the rich man and king
    And the scribe and the priest.

We want the Galilean
    Who knew cross and rod.
It's your "good taste" that prefers
    A bastard God!

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Aux Ternes. {46} (Paris.)

SHE. - "Up and down, up and down,
            From early eve to early day.
        Life is quicker in the town;
            When you've leisure, anyway!

        "Down and up, down and up!
            O will no one stop and speak?
        I would really like to sup,
            And my limbs are heavy and weak.

        "What's my price, sir? I'm no Jew.
            If with me you wish to sleep,
        'Tis five francs, sir. Surely you
            Will admit that that is cheap?"

HE. - "Christ, if you are not stone blind,
        Stone deaf also, you know it is
    Christian towns leave far behind
        Sodom and thos...

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

In The Street. Lord - - .

You have done well, we say it. You are dead,
    And, of the man that with the right hand takes
Less than the left hand gives, let it be said
    He has done something for our wretched sakes.
For those to whom you gave their daily bread
    Rancid with God-loathed "charity," their drink
Putrid with man-loathed "sin," we bow our head
    Grateful, as the great hearse goes by, and think.
Yes, you have fed the flesh and starved the soul
    Of thousands of us; you have taught too well
The rich are little gods beyond control,
    Save of your big God of the heaven and hell.
We thank you. This was pretty once, and right.
Now it wears rather thin. My lord, good night!

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

One Among So Many.

. . . In a dark street she met and spoke to me,
Importuning, one wet and mild March night.
We walked and talked together. O her tale
Was very common; thousands know it all!
Seduced; a gentleman; a baby coming;
Parents that railed; London; the child born dead;
A seamstress then, one of some fifty girls
"Taken on" a few months at a dressmaker's
In the crush of the "season;" thirteen shillings a week!
The fashionable people's dresses done,
And they flown off, these fifty extra girls
Sent - to the streets: that is, to work that gives
Scarcely enough to buy the decent clothes
Respectable employers all demand
Or speak dismissal. Well, well, well, we know!
And she - "Why, I have gone on down and down,
And there's the gutter, look, that ...

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Epistle To The Labouring Poor.
All you who turn the sturdy soil,
Or ply the loom with daily toil,
And lowly on through life turmoil
For scanty fare,
Attend, and gather richest spoil
To soothe your care.

I write with tender, feeling heart,
Then kindly read what I impart;
'Tis freely penned, devoid of art,
In homely style,
'Tis meant to ward off Satan's dart,
And show his guile.

I write to ope your sin-closed eyes,
And make you great, and rich, and wise,
And give you peace when trials rise,
And sorrows gloom;
I write to fit you for the skies
On Day of Doom.

What, though you dwell in lowly cot,
And share through life a humble lot?
Some thousands wealth and fame have got,
Yet know no rest:
They build, pull down, and scheme and plot,
And die u...
Patrick Bronte

Easter Even
(Lyra Messianica, 1864.)

There is nothing more that they can do
For all their rage and boast;
Caiaphas with his blaspheming crew,
Herod with his host,

Pontius Pilate in his Judgement-hall
Judging their Judge and his,
Or he who led them all and passed them all,
Arch-Judas with his kiss.

The sepulchre made sure with ponderous Stone,
Seal that same stone, O Priest;
It may be thou shalt block the holy One
From rising in the east:

Set a watch about the sepulchre
To watch on pain of death;
They must hold fast the stone if One should stir
And shake it from beneath.

God Almighty, He can break a seal
And roll away a Stone,
Can grind the proud in dust who would not kneel,
...
Christina Georgina Rossetti