Rain, Rain

Again, again I greet your soft stampede,
afoot and whispering verse with chorused rhyme.
It's long I listen, late when wonders wake.
And not for what of old you've seen, but where
instead your gentle drops have ancient been,
of what in distant days you've felt, and who?

Did one amongst your many mingle
midst the storming sea to cradle only brief
His wearied heel or arch when once He trod
in faith, afoot across the storming sea?
Or drop beneath the starry sky to grace
the newborn's infant eye, or soft
beget a chill upon his creaseless brow?

Alight in ashen grey, did one or all,
or any wet that creased and precious brow
when thorns beset His aged and sorrowed eyes?
Perhaps his burdened back or bloodied hair,
His hanging head or pierced and flowing side.

On dusk's approach, I walk your slowed stampede,
within the hope, a silent hope;
of all your gentle drops upon my skin or near,
that one amongst you had the joy
to wash away His tears.