A Recantation

'Twas Christ that spoke, while sitting on the Ass
Beneath the brows of Olivet, He gazed
Upon the rebel city, which, alas!
Was, in His weeping eyes, already razed:
Calm'd by His mild rebuke, I could not chide
Nor wipe His tears, and though His utmost grief
Lay bare before me, proffer'd no relief,
But, 'Oh! forgive my folly, Lord,' I cried, —
Vailing the fair presumptuous palm I bore,
To the dark Cross His meeker servant wore;
'Or I would rather be this little foal
That stands and waits, where Thou would'st wait and weep,
Than the light thinker, who would fain control
Thy love, and lull Thy holy pains to sleep.'