Verse > Oscar Wilde > Poems

Oscar Wilde (1854–1900).  Poems.  1881.

6. Sonnet on the Massacre of the Christians in Bulgaria

CHRIST, dost thou live indeed? or are thy bones 
Still straightened in their rock-hewn sepulchre? 
And was thy Rising only dreamed by Her 
Whose love of thee for all her sin atones? 
For here the air is horrid with men’s groans,         5
The priests who call upon thy name are slain, 
Dost thou not hear the bitter wail of pain 
From those whose children lie upon the stones? 
Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom 
Curtains the land, and through the starless night  10
Over thy Cross the Crescent moon I see! 
If thou in very truth didst burst the tomb 
Come down, O Son of Man! and show thy might, 
Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee! 



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