Beneath Thy Cross

Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?

Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;

Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon--
I, only I.

Yet give not o'er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.

by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Comments (2)

Great poem, could not have said it better.
Her opening lines are so profound with emotion, as the lament flows through the rest of the poem, with the last stanza resolute in hope, totally redeeming the sorrow 'beneath the Cross.' A masterpiece!