Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 Am I a stone, and not a sheep, That I can stand, 0 Christ, beneath Thy cross, To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss, And yet not weep? Not so those women loved Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee; Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly; Not so the thief was moved; Not so the Sun and Moon Which hid their faces in a starless sky: A horror of great darkness at broad noon I only I. Yet give not o'er But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock; Greater than Moses, turn and look once more And smite a rock.

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 Heaven overarches earth and sea, Earth-sadness and sea-bitterness. Heaven overarches you and me: A little while and we shall be - Please God -- where there is no more sea Nor barren wilderness. Heaven overarches you and me, And all earth's gardens and her braves. Look up with me, until we see The day break and the shadows flee. What though to-night wrecks you and me, If so to-morrow saves?

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 "I have not sought Thee, I have not found Thee, I have not thirsted for Thee: And now cold billows of death surround me, Buffeting billows of death astound me, Wilt Thou look upon, wilt Thou see Thy perishing me?" "Yea, I have sought thee, yea, I have found thee, Yea, I have thirsted for thee, Yea, long ago with love's bands I bound thee: Now the Everlasting Arms surround thee, Through death's darkness I look and see And clasp thee to Me.".

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 At morn I plucked a rose and give it Thee, A rose of joy and happy love and peace, A rose with scarce a thorn: But in the chillness of a second morn My rose bush drooped, and all its gay increase Was but one thorn that wounded me. I plucked the thorn and offered it to Thee, And for my thorn Thou gavest love and peace, Not joy this mortal morn: If Thou hast given much treasure for a thorn, Wilt Thou not give me for my rose increase Of gladness, and all sweets to me? My thorny rose, my love and pain, to Thee I offer, and I set my heart in peace, And rest upon my thorn: For verily I think to-morrow morn Shall bring me Paradise, my gift's increase, Yea, give Thy very Self to me.

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 A Better Resurrection I have no wit, no words, no tears; My heart within me like a stone Is numbed too much for hopes or fears. Look right, look left, I dwell alone; I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief No everlasting hills I see; My life is in the falling leaf: O Jesus, quicken me. My life is like a faded leaf, My harvest dwindled to a husk: Truly my life is void and brief And tedious in the barren dusk; My life is like a frozen thing, No bud nor greenness can I see: Yet rise it shall--the sap of spring; O Jesus, rise in me. My life is like a broken bowl, A broken bowl that cannot hold One drop of water for my soul Or cordial in the searching cold; Cast in the fire the perished thing; Melt and remould it, till it be A royal cup for Him, my King: O Jesus, drink of me.

Feast of Christina Rossetti, Poet, 1894 What can I give Him Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would give Him a lamb, If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part, -- But what I can, I give Him, Give my heart.