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    On The Massacre Of The Christians In Bulgaria

    by Oscar Wilde
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    CHRIST, dost thou live indeed? or are thy bones
    Still straightened in their rock-hewn sepulcher?
    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 the 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!
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