THE PRACTICE OF LOVE

When men of malice wrought the crown for Thee
Didst Thou complain?
Nay; in each thorn God's finger Thou didst see,
His love thro' pain.

His finger did but press the ripened Vine,
Thy fruit to prove,
That henceforth all the world might drink the wine
Of Thy great love.

So when the darkness rose about Thy feet
Thy lips met His,
Amid the upper light, in Death's long sweet,
Releasing kiss.

And shall I cry aloud in anger when
Men make for me
A Cross less harsh? Nay, I'll remember then
Thy constancy.

And if the darkness hide me from Thy sight
At God's command,
I'll talk with Thee all thro' the prayerful night,
And touch Thy hand;

Greatly content, if I whose life has been
So long unwise,
May, wounded, on Thy wounded bosom lean
In Paradise.