This is a sonnet on religion, but the dark side. Oscar Wilde is not normally accounted as a religious poet. But this is religious, and involves martyrs and saints.
The Turks killed 5000 people in 1876. Oscar Wilde accused Christ of being uncaring five years later. In 2000, the independent Bulgaria, after a century of suffering, proclaimed the martyrs saints.
CHRIST, dost thou live indeed? or are thy bones
Still straightened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?
And was thy 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 thy Cross the Crescent moon I see!
If thou in very truth didst burst the tomb
Come down, O Son of Man! and show thy might,
Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!
Mohammed has no crown. Christ has.