The following is a poem by Oscar Wilde, entitled On the Massacre of the Christians in Bulgaria.
Christ, dost thou live indeed? or are they bones
Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?
And was they Rising only dreamed by Her
Whose love of thee for all her sin atones?
For here the air is horrid with men’s groans,
The priests who call upon thy name are slain,
Dost thou not hear the bitter wail of pain
From those whose children lie upon the stones?
Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom
Curtains the land, and through the starless night
Over they Cross a crescent moon I see!
If thou in very truth didst burst the tomb
Come down, O Son of Man! and show they might,
Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!
This conflict rages on.
Now go lift something heavy,