Good Friday Poem by Digby Mackworth Dolben

Was it a dream-the outline of that Face,
Which seemed to lighten from the Holy Place,
Meeting all want, fulfilling all desire?
A dream-the music of that Voice most sweet,
Which seemed to rise above the chanting choir?
A dream-the treadings of those wounded Feet,
Pacing about the Altar still and slow?
Illusion-all I thought to love and know?


Strong Sorrow-wrestler of Mount Calvary,
Speak through the blackness of Thine Agony,
Say, have I ever known Thee? answer me!
Speak, Merciful and Mighty, lifted up
To draw those to Thee who have power to will
The roseate Baptism, and the bitter Cup,
The Royal Graces of the Cross-crowned Hill.


Terrible Golgotha-among the bones
Which whiten thee, as thick as splintered stones
Where headlong rocks have crushed themselves away,
I stumble on-Is it too dark to pray?