Explore "Sonnet on the Massacre of the Christians in Bulgaria" by Oscar Wilde on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Christ, dost thou live indeed? or are thy bones / Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?
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 a Crescent moon I see!
If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb / Come down, O Son of Man! and show thy might / Lest Muhammad be crowned instead of Thee!