Writing on Good Friday, I consider it appropriate to continue on the religious and sacrificial theme. The following are two of my favourites by Irish writers:
I see his blood upon the rose,
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.
I see his face in every flower;
The thunder, and the singing of the birds
Are but His voice; and, carven by His power,
Rocks are His written words.
All the pathways by His feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea;
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn;
His cross is every tree.
By Joseph Mary Plunkett
All in the April evening
April airs were abroad;
The sheep with their little lambs
Passed me by on the road.
The sheep with their little lambs
Passed me by on the road
All in the April evening
I thought on the Lamb of God.
The lambs were weary, and crying
With a weak, human cry.
I thought on the Lamb of God
Going meekly to die.
Up in the blue, blue mountains
Dewy pastures are sweet;
Rest for the little bodies
Rest for the little feet.
But for the lamb of God,
Up on the hill-top green
Only a cross of shame,
Two stark crosses between.
All in the April evening
April airs were abroad;
I saw the sheep with their lambs
And thought on the Lamb of God.