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Poem by Oscar Wilde


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 menТs 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
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!



Oscar Wilde


Oscar Wilde's other poems:
  1. Les Ballons
  2. On the Massacre of the Christians in Bulgaria
  3. Fabien Dei Franchi
  4. Tristitiae
  5. San Miniato


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