Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

1840 - 1922 / England

A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet Xxxix

Ancient of days! What word is thy command
To one befooled of wit and his own way?
What counsel hast thou, and what chastening hand
For a lost soul grown old in its dismay?
What penance shall he do, what ransom pay,
Of blood poured out for faith in a far land,
What mute knee--service, weeping here to--day,
In words of prayer no ear shall understand?
Let him thy servant be, the least of all
In the Lord's Courts, but near thy mysteries,
To touch the crumbs which from thy table fall,
Let him--. But lo, thou speakest: ''Not with these
Is God delighted. Get thee homeward hence.
They need thee more who wait deliverance!''
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