The Fool's Prayer

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 jest 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!"

This poem is written by Edward Roland Sill (1841-1887).  He was an American essayist, poet, and professor of English.

Saved by Grace,

E.W.