Already he was shown so perfectly
The awful mystic grace and sanctity
Of all the earth, there was no part his feet
With sandal covering might dare to tread;
Because that in it he was sure to meet
The fair sword-bearing angels, or some dread
Eternal prophet numbered with the dead.
So he believed that he should purify
His body, till the sin of it should die,
And the unfailing spirit and great word
Of One—who is too bright to be beheld,
And in his speech too fearful to be heard
By mortal man—should come down and be held
In him as in those holy ones of eld.
And to believe in this was rapture more
Than any that the thought of living bore
To tempt him: so the pleasant days of youth
Were but the days of striving and of prayer;
And all the beauty of those days, forsooth,
He counted as an evil or a snare,
And would have left it in the desert there.
Ah, spite of all the scourges that had bit
So fiercely his fair body, branding it
With many a painful over-written vow
Of perfect sanctity—what man shall say
How often, weak with groanings, he would bow
Before the angels of the place, and pray
That all his body might consume away?
For through whole bitter days it seemed in vain
That all the mighty desert had no stain
Of sin around him; that the burning breaths
Went forth from the eternal One, and rolled
For ever through it, filling it with deaths,
And plagues, and fires; that he did behold
The earthquakes and the wonders manifold:
It seemed in vain that all the place was bright
Ineffably with that unfading light
No man who worketh evil can abide;
That he could see too with his open eyes
Fair troops of deathless ones, and those that died
In martyrdoms, or went up to the skies
In fiery cars—walk there with no disguise;—
It seemed in vain that he was there alone
With no man’s sin to tempt him but his own;—
Since in his body he did bear about
A seeming endless sin he could not quell
With the most sharp coercement, nor cast out
Through any might of prayer. O, who can tell—
Save God—how often in despair he fell?
The very stones seemed purer far than he;
And every naked rock and every tree
Looked great and calm, composed in one long thought
Of holiness; each bird and creeping thing
Rejoiced in bearing some bright sign that taught
The legend of an ancient minist’ring
To some fair saint of old there sojourning.
Yea, all the dumb things and the creatures there
Were grand, and some way sanctified; most fair
The very lions stood, and had no shame
Before the angels; and what time were poured
The floods of the Lord’s anger forth, they came
Quite nigh the lightnings of the Mount and roared
Among the roaring thunders of the Lord:
Yet He—while in him day by day, divine,
The clear inspirèd thought went on to shine,
And heaven was opening every radiant door
Upon his spirit—He, in that fair dress
Of weak humanity his senses bore,
Did feel scarce worthy to be there, and less
Than any dweller in the wilderness.
Wherefore his limbs were galled with many a stone;
And often he had wrestled all alone
With their fair beauty, conquering the pride
And various pleasure of them with some quick
And hard inflicted pain that might abide,—
Assailing all the sense with constant prick
Until the lust or pride fell faint and sick.