He would kiss the hands where the nails went in;
And then at the last would sit with Him
And break the bread as the day grew dim.
VI
While the cobbler mused, there passed his pane
A beggar drenched by the driving rain.
He called him in from the stony street
And gave him shoes for his bruisèd feet.
The beggar went and there came a crone,
Her face with wrinkles of sorrow sown.