RENUNCIATION
He might have built a palace at a word,
Who sometimes had not where to lay His head;
Time was when He has nourished crowds with bread;
Would not one meal unto Himself afford.
Twelve legions girded with angelic sword
Were at His beck — the scorned and buffeted!/He healed another’s scratch: His own side bled,
Side, feet, and hands, with cruel piercings gored.
Oh, wonderful the wonders left undone!
And scarce less wonderful than those He wrought!
Oh, self-restraint, passing all human thought,
To have all power and He as having none!
Oh, self-denying love, which felt alone
For needs of others, never for its own. Richard Chenevix Trench
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