David's Lament For Abasolom

DAVID’S LAMENT (FOR ABSALOM) What voice is that beneath the wild thorn trees, Where birds go up and broken branches swing? Ah, words out of a dead mouth cannot reach The ears of a waiting king! And the frightened mule runs on alone, Oh, Absalom, my son, my son! Behold! And what a vision here I see Before the frightened animal is met– A figure hangs upon a tree, With head befouled and bloody yet! And the frightened mule runs on alone Oh, Absalom, my son, my son! It is a dreadful thing to lose A son and heir so featured and so young, And were it given me a head to choose Mine own beneath that bough was hung! But the frightened mule runs on alone, Oh, Absalom, my son, my son! Let him who thinks this death were somehow fair, Let him give over kith and kin To dangle upright by a hair And be an awful plaything to the wind! And the frightened mule runs on alone, Oh, Absalom, my son, my son! I see the coming ages yet unborn Where kings from out my house take their stride– And all within are capped by a crown of thorn And bloodied at the side! But the frightened mule runs on alone, Oh, Absalom, my son, my son!