Christ Crucified

by Richard Crashaw

Thy restless feet now cannot go   For us and our eternal good, As they were ever wont. What though   They swim, alas! in their own flood? Thy hands to give Thou canst not lift,   Yet will Thy hand still giving be; It gives, but O, itself's the gift!   It gives tho' bound, tho' bound 'tis free!

More poems by Richard Crashaw

All poems by Richard Crashaw →