They drew me back—
The seraphs who had never bled
Of weary lack—
But still I cried,
With torn robe, clutching at His feet,
"Dear Christ! He died
So long ago!
Is He not here? Three days, unfleet
As mortal flow
Of time I've sought—
Till Heaven's amaranthine ways
Seem as sere nought!"
A grieving stole
Up from His heart and waned the gaze
Of His clear soul
Into my eyes.
"He is not here," troubled He sighed.
"For none who dies
Beliefless may
Bend lips to this sin-healing Tide,
And live alway."
Then darkness rose
Within me, and drear bitterness.
Out of its throes
I moaned, at last,
"Let me go hence! Take off the dress,
The charms Thou hast
Around me strown!
Beliefless too am I without
His love—and lone!"