Sonnet

Oscar Wilde

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,
          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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