Page:Poems Shipton.djvu/157

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Say, doth He bring him fetters,
 Or comes He to upbraid?
Nay! to the rest that fails not
 He draws the drooping head.

And in that deep, deep silence
 The gaping wounds are bound,
With touch so soft and gentle—
 Hush! it is holy ground.

O Christ! Thy tender pity
 For every pang I see;
Each sob of pain is numbered,
 And counted as for Thee.

Yea, closer, and yet closer,
 Thy wounded one is prest;
And human woes are whispered
 Upon a human breast.

Then in the solemn silence
 I hear the whisper sweet,
"Fear not, My wounded soldier;
 Behold My hands and feet!"
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The fever dream is over;
 The tearless eyes can weep;
And He, whose arms enfold him,
 Gives His beloved sleep.