In a short break with the tradition here at Ranting Stan, I'm dropping the English Poetry spot for an Irish poet - Oscar Wilde. I've never been a great fan of Oscar Wilde's poetry - though I do enjoy much of his other work - which is probably why I've not come across this one before. As poetry goes, I'm still not exactly enthralled with it, but it does have a certain relevance in today's world.
Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones
Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?
And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her
Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones?
For here the air is horrid with men's groans,
The priests who call upon Thy name are slain,
Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain
From those whose children lie upon the stones?
Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom
Curtains the land, and through the starless night
Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!
If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb
Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might
Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!
Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)