THE FOOL'S PRAYER by Edward Rowland Sill (1841-1887)
THE royal feast was done; the King Sought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"
The jester doffed his cap and bells, And stood the mocking court before; They could not see the bitter smile Behind the painted grin he wore.
He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the Monarch's silken stool; His pleading voice arose: �O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!
�No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool; The rod must heal the sin: but Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!
��Tis not by guilt the onward sweep Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; �Tis by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away.
�These clumsy feet, still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend.
�The ill-timed truth we might have kept� Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say� Who knows how grandly it had rung!
�Our faults no tenderness should ask. The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; But for our blunders � oh, in shame Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
�Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool That did his will; but Thou, O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!�
The room was hushed; in silence rose The King, and sought his gardens cool, And walked apart, and murmured low, �Be merciful to me, a fool!�
