Poem by Emily Pauline Johnson

Brier - Good Friday

    Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm
        Bends back the brier that edges life's long way,
    That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm,
        I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.

    Because I never knew your care to tire,
        Your hand to weary guiding me aright,
    Because you walk before and crush the brier,
        It does not pierce my feet so much to-night.

    Because so often you have hearkened to
        My selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now,
    That these harsh hands of mine add not unto
        The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow.

1. Where Leaps the Ste. Marie
2. The King's Consort
3. The City and the Sea
4. When George Was King
5. Your Mirror Frame

Print

1242 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version