"My son! My son! My more than son,
My heart is full for thee!
Yet, tho' I know thee so much more
Than ever mortal man before,—
Yet, tho' I worship and adore,—
Woe's me!—and the heart of me!"
And ever they came by the Potter's Field,
And thrust their bodies in,
And ever the sick earth spat them out,
Because of Iscariot's sin.
They sped along a palace-wall,
The feast waxed high inside,—
On Golgotha the Cross still stood,
The Cross where man had nailed his God,
Red was the Rood still with his blood,—
They drank—"The Crucified!"
The revel gashed the sombre night,
And fast the wine-cups plied,—
Time touched Eternity that day;—
God had come down to man that day;—
The world began anew that day;—
They drank—"The Crucified!"
And ever again to the Potter's Field,
The Souls in torment came,
But the black quag boiled and writhed and coiled,
And would have none of them.
And everywhere strange shapes of death
Walked in the fearsome gloom,
For that last cry from Calvary
Had rent in twain the Temple vail,
And burst the gates of Doom.
Through all the startled city, walked
The saints that had been dead,
And to the sorrowful in heart
Holy comfort ministrèd.
And when they met Iscariot,
Sore hounded in the chase,
They cried to him, for the Love of God,
To seek God's grace.
And ever to the Field of Death,
The souls in torment came,
Seeking the rest of the Blessèd Dead,—
But earth would none of them.
And as they whirled through a garden,
They came on an empty tomb,
The stone was gone, a soft light shone
Full softly on the gloom.