The Fool’s Prayer.

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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 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!”

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© by Edward R. Sill


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