By Edward R. Sill

The royal feast was done; the King 
Sought some new sport to banish care, 
And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool, 
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!” 

The jester doffed his cap and bells, 
And stood the mocking court before; 
They could not see the bitter smile 
Behind the painted grin he wore. 

He bowed his head, and bent his knee 
Upon the monarch’s silken stool; 
His pleading voice arose: “O Lord, 
Be merciful to me, a fool! 

“No pity, Lord, could change the heart 
From red with wrong to white as wool; 
The rod must heal the sin; but Lord, 
Be merciful to me, a fool! 

“ ’Tis not by guilt the onward sweep 
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; 
’Tis by our follies that so long 
We hold the earth from heaven away. 

“These clumsy feet, still in the mire, 
Go crushing blossoms without end; 
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust 
Among the heart-strings of a friend. 

“The ill-timed truth we might have kept – 
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? 
The word we had not sense to say – 
Who knows how grandly it had rung? 

“Our faults no tenderness should ask, 
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; 
But for our blunders-oh, in shame 
Before the eyes of heaven we fall. 

“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; 
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool 
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord, 
Be merciful to me, a fool!” 

The room was hushed; in silence rose 
The King, and sought his gardens cool, 
And walked apart, and murmured low, 
“Be merciful to me, a fool!”