[Among the original poems for holiday editions of various journals, we have seen none better than the following, with the above heading, written by Oakland’s sweet singer, Ina Coolbrith. It appeared in the Sunday Examiner of December 20.] STILL, still upon the cross!
Yet is it writ that Thou,
With thorn-pierced brow,
Amid the jeer of mocking lips, the toss
Of mocking heads, a thief on either side,
Wert crucified;
Nailed to the awful tree,—
Thy throne of agony,—
Thou, Son of God! Thy blood, Thy life, didst give
That we might live. Nay, Lord, can this be so
And earth not know?
Thy star, whose fields Thy feet divine once trod
Fresh from the fields of God,
Thy natal star, whose skies
Have quickened to Thine eyes,
While thrilled through boundless space
The worlds to greet Thy face
From this, dear Lord, one of
the least thereof,
Great only in Thy love. In Thy love, only great!
O Christ compassionate,
Pity us, deaf and blind,
Frail humankind!
Pity us, loving still,
Tho all in vain
Seemeth Thy price of pain;
Pity us, loving still,—
Tho still with sin and shame and
strife and hate
We thwart Thy will. Still, still, upon the cross!
For lo! our every evil is a
thorn
Wherewith our hands adorn
Thy bleeding brow; each brother-help denied
A spear thrust in Thy side,
Daily betray we Thee for golden
dross;
Through the long centuries
Unheeding, and still heeding not
Thy cries,
So hold we thee, O Saviour, crucified—
Still, still upon the cross.