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 down 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 bore.

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 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;
Abut 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!”

~ ~ ~  Edward Rowland Sill