Good Friday
Am I a stone and not a sheepThat I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,To number drop by drop Thy Blood’s slow loss,And yet not weep?
Not so those women lovedWho with exceeding grief lamented Thee;Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and MoonWhich hid their faces in a starless sky, 10A horror of great darkness at broad noon—I, only I.
Yet give not o’er,But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;Greater than Moses, turn and look once moreAnd smite a rock.