Sir T. But Christ, the man of sorrows?
St. J. I never preach
The man of sorrows now…. I grasp my theme:
Give me your eye and ear, your heart and brain.
Jesus of Nazareth—no, the Son of Man;
Because this Jesus is a sloppy word,
Mainly a sponge to wipe the tiresome tears
Of foolish people. He, then, the Son of Man——
Sir T. But this you never preached in Westminster?
St. J. Never directly; nor shall I preach it there.
Not of the pulpit; of the stage, this theme
Demands a crowded theatre and the mood
Expectant, tyrannous of the gallery, not
The mood submissive of the worshipper.
Sir T. My nerves begin to tingle, telepaths
Of coming wonder. Till I hear it all
You shall not leave the theatre.
[At the telephone]
(Blyth, I stay
Awhile. What do you say? What lady? Oh!—
My wife went home! Yes, you may go. My key?
I have it. True. Goodnight.) Now, Gervase, speak
As if it were the judgment-day!
St. J. It is—
It always is; and could we hear it peal,
Each moment, heavy with eternal doom,
Thunders in every heart.
Sir T. Then speak to me
As one about to die.
St. J. I speak as one
About to live!
Sir T. To one about to live!
St. J. This question like an automatic rack
Seized me and stretched me: "Will you teach a lie?"
"Behold," I cried; "I have a tender heart—
"Soft-hearted am I; let a harder man
"Confront this problem, lead the great revolt.
"Though this of God and Sin and Heaven and Hell
"Be now worn out, yet have I nothing new
"To traffic for it: let a stronger man
"Become protagonist and martyr; I
"Already faint: let this cup pass from me."
Oh it was good to say to broken hearts—
The faded women and the old worn men—
"Come unto me and I will give you rest."