Classic Poem

TRAVEL-WORN , among the brambles
Grope I, sick and lone,
Vainly searching for the pathway
All with thorns o'ergrown.
Holy angels! to the Healer
Guide my trembling soul!
If I may but touch His garment,
I shall be whole.

Pleasure's red and purple blossoms
Wooed my foolish feet;
Busily the buds I gathered
Filled with nectar sweet.
Far and farther on I wandered,
Drinking deadly wine
From each deep and gaudy flower-cup
As a draught divine.

Then — the noonday sun o'ertook me
In a desert dread,
Where, 'midst faded wreaths of purple,
Lay the unshriven dead;
Wild Remorse the only watcher
By their graveless bed —
Stricken Rachel, still refusing
To be comforted.

I have fled away affrighted,
But each leprous vein
Carries up the hated venom
To my reeling brain.
Still I see, though dim and distant,
Christ the Nazarene;
Holy angels! lead me to Him!
He can make me clean.

Through the clouds that throng about Him,
Lowliest of all
Come I, with my spotted raiment
At His feet to fall.
Holy angels, nearer, nearer
Guide my starving soul!
If I may but touch His garment,
I shall be whole.

Master, from the bitter apples
Gilding pleasure's tree,
I am come, repentant, begging
Bread and wine of Thee.
In the dust I crouch before Thee,
Waiting my release —
Waiting till Thy tender mercy
Bid me Go in peace .