The fetor of thy grim burnt-offerings
Comes up to Me in clouds of bitterness.
Thy fell undoings crucify afresh
Thy Lord—who died alike for these and thee.
Thy works are Death:—thy spear is in My side,—
O man! O man!—was it for this I died?
Was it for this?—
A valiant people harried to the void,—
Their fruitful fields a burnt-out wilderness,—
Their prosperous country ravelled into waste,—