“Unkept Good Fridays”

A poem by Thomas Hardy

I’m taking a short break for Easter. So today, instead of an essay, here’s a poem by Thomas Hardy.

Remember, paid subscribers meet on Sunday 7th April, 19.00 UK time to discuss **Henry IV part I**. You can find all the Shakespeare essays here, and the schedule for future meetings here. There is a chat threat about the play here for all comments and questions.

And look out for Substack Reads tomorrow. I’m guest editing this week!

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There are many more Good Fridays
Than this, if we but knew
The names, and could relate them,
Of men whom rulers slew
For their goodwill, and date them
As runs the twelvemonth through.

These nameless Christs' Good Fridays,
Whose virtues wrought their end,
Bore days of bonds and burning,
With no man to their friend,
Of mockeries, and spurning;
Yet they are all unpenned.

When they had their Good Fridays
Of bloody sweat and strain
Oblivion hides. We quote not
Their dying words of pain,
Their sepulchres we note not,
Unwitting where they have lain.

No annual Good Fridays
Gained they from cross and cord,
From being sawn asunder,
Disfigured and abhorred,
Smitten and trampled under:
Such dates no hands have scored.

Let be. Let lack Good Fridays
These Christs of unwrit names;
The world was not even worthy
To taunt their hopes and aims,
As little of earth, earthy,
As his mankind proclaims.

1927