A Gravestone Upon The Floor In The Cloisters Of Worcester Cathedral

'MISERRIMUS,' and neither name nor date,
Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the stone;
Nought but that word assigned to the unknown,
That solitary word--to separate
From all, and cast a cloud around the fate
Of him who lies beneath. Most wretched one,
'Who' chose his epitaph?--Himself alone
Could thus have dared the grave to agitate,
And claim, among the dead, this awful crown;
Nor doubt that He marked also for his own
Close to these cloistral steps a burial-place,
That every foot might fall with heavier tread,
Trampling upon his vileness. Stranger, pass
Softly!--To save the contrite, Jesus bled.

by William Wordsworth

Comments (3)

Very nice and hearttouching poem
Jesus Bled! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
This is a short and masterful poem, full of feeling, meet in form to its subject, on a most serious theme. No lover of Wordsworth's usual over-wordy exhalations on gardens, flowers, rustic shepherdesses etc., yet this one speaks clearly and eloquently to more than my ears alone. I won't soon forget it.