Making Moan

by Frances Fuller Victor

I have learned how vainly given

Life's most precious things may be.


O, Christ, to-night I bring

A sad, weak heart, to lay before thy feet;

Too sad, almost, to cling

Even to Thee; too suffering,

If Thou shouldst pierce me, to regard the sting;

Too stunned to feel the pity I entreat

Closing around me its embraces sweet.

Shepherd, who gatherest up

The weary ones from all the world's highways;

And bringest them to sup

Of Thy bread, and Thy blessed cup;

If so Thou will, lay me within the scope

Only of Thy great tenderness, that rays

Too melting may not reach me from Thy face.

Here let me lie, and press

My forehead's pain out on Thy mantle's hem;

And chide not my distress,

For this, that I have loved thee less,

In loving so much some, whose sordidness

Has left me outcast, at the last, from them

And their poor love, which I cannot contemn.

No, cannot, even now,

Put Thee before them in my broken heart.

But, gentle Shepherd, Thou

Dost even such as I allow

The healing of Thy presence. Let my brow

Be covered from thy sight, while I, apart,

Brood over in dull pain my mortal hurt.