Poetry Sunday: On Easter Day

How far has organized Christianity fallen from the simplicity of its beginnings?


    On Easter Day
    by
    Oscar Wilde

    The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
    The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
    And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
    Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
    Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
    And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
    Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
    In splendor and in light the Pope passed home.
    My heart stole back across wide wastes of years
    To One who wandered by a lonely sea,
    And sought in vain for any place of rest:
    "Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,
    I, only I, must wander wearily,
    And bruise My feet, and drink wine salt with tears."

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