Much rather would I refuge take
With Mary, dear to me,
To whom that rough hard speech he spake—
What have I to do with thee?
Surely I know men tenderer,
Women of larger soul,
Who need no prayer their hearts to stir,
Who always would make whole!
Oftenest he looks a weary saint,
Embalmed in pallid gleam;
Listless and sad, without complaint,
Like dead man in a dream.
And, at the best, he is uplift
A spectacle, a show:—
The worth of such an outworn gift
I know too much to know!
How find the love to pay my debt?—
He leads me from the sun!—
Yet it is hard men should forget
A good deed ever done!—
Forget that he, to foil a curse,
Did, on that altar-hill,
Sun of a sunless universe,
Hang dying, patient, still!
But what is He, whose pardon slow
At so much blood is priced?—
If such thou art, O Jove, I go
To the Promethean Christ!
XII.
A word within says I am to blame,
And therefore must confess;
Must call my doing by its name,
And so make evil less.
"I could not his false triumph bear,
For he was first in wrong."
"Thy own ill-doings are thy care,
His to himself belong."