Christina Rossetti

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 Am I a stone, and not a sheep, That I can stand, 0 read more

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 Am I a stone, and not a sheep, That I can stand, 0 Christ, beneath Thy cross, To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss, And yet not weep? Not so those women loved Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee; Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly; Not so the thief was moved; Not so the Sun and Moon Which hid their faces in a starless sky: A 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 more And smite a rock.

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 What can I give Him Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, read more

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 What can I give Him Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would give Him a lamb, If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part, -- But what I can, I give Him, Give my heart.

Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole read more

Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend.

Better by far that you should forget and smile than that you should remember and be sad.

Better by far that you should forget and smile than that you should remember and be sad.

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 A Better Resurrection I have no wit, no words, no tears; My heart read more

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 A Better Resurrection I have no wit, no words, no tears; My heart within me like a stone Is numbed too much for hopes or fears. Look right, look left, I dwell alone; I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief No everlasting hills I see; My life is in the falling leaf: O Jesus, quicken me. My life is like a faded leaf, My harvest dwindled to a husk: Truly my life is void and brief And tedious in the barren dusk; My life is like a frozen thing, No bud nor greenness can I see: Yet rise it shall--the sap of spring; O Jesus, rise in me. My life is like a broken bowl, A broken bowl that cannot hold One drop of water for my soul Or cordial in the searching cold; Cast in the fire the perished thing; Melt and remould it, till it be A royal cup for Him, my King: O Jesus, drink of me.