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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XXXIX
Work rating: Low

Ancient of days! What word is thy command
 To one befooled of wit and his own way?
 What counsel hast thou, and what chastening hand
 For a lost soul grown old in its dismay?
 What penance shall he do, what ransom pay,
 Of blood poured out for faith in a far land,
 What mute knee--service, weeping here to--day,
 In words of prayer no ear shall understand?
 Let him thy servant be, the least of all
 In the Lord`s Courts, but near thy mysteries,
 To touch the crumbs which from thy table fall,
 Let him--. But lo, thou speakest: ``Not with these
 Is God delighted. Get thee homeward hence.
 They need thee more who wait deliverance!``
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