GARDEN by the brook,
The brook Kedron—
Olive-silvered nook,
Red flowers to kneel on:
There in blood and strife divine,
There a Eucharist outspread,
Christ gave the Father in a chalice Wine,
And in His yielded Will He offered Bread.
Garden on the hill,
Mount Golgotha,
Have you a running rill
From your rocky spur?
“Yea, a water from His side,
Who was hanging on a Tree:
Son of Man, they called Him, and He died,
And is hidden in my rock with me.”
GARDEN-SEED
WHAT art Thou sowing in the garden-ground,
Sowing, sowing with such pain?
Clouds are overhead, and all around
Spring hath fallen spring-rain
Of seed-growing power.
Lo, where Thou bowest down, it seems a shower
Hath laid the grass, as rain ran through,
Engendering rain, stronger than early dew.
It is Thy Agony that pierces deep
Through the sod of that still place;
For Thou bowest down where Thou dost weep,
Bowest down Thy face;
And Thou sowest seed,
Drops of Thy most Holy Blood, that bleed
Through brow and limbs in sweat, and stay
Red on the Earth, while the tears sink away.
Sower, what herb shall spring, what flower be born?
Will pomegranate-apples hang,
When we pass this way, some morn?
Struck with spring’s own pang,
This our eyes will see—
Faith that shoulders great buds lustily;
Hope that shoots up a hundredfold;
And Love in roses wondrous to behold.
UNIVERSA COHORS
THEY call the cohort from all sides together....
There is a king, a king of mockery,
His kingdom a pretence,
An actor to be dressed for all to see,
Whose body oozes from the cords or leather
That struck with lashes dense—
There is a king to mock, a make-believe
To be derided, a poor form to grieve
With haughty purple of the robe of state,
And acclamations powerless to elate;
A victim to be tortured and made grand
With clothes whose pomp He cannot understand,
Claiming with slavish brow their heritage:
There is the mocking of a solemn dupe,
With laughter and a jollity of rage.
They call together, like the vultures called
To feast on what is yet a feast forestalled,
The cohort in a troop.
O Martyrs, press together from all regions,
You have a King, a King for whom you died—
His kingdom built on gems—
And ye are dressed in purple from His side;
The stoles of glory, clothing all your legion,
His purple to their hems!
Press round Him whom the Romans mocked that day,
Press round Him, Martyrs; keep His foes at bay!
And let me, though far off from your bright red
Of vestures triumphing in Blood He shed,
Yet wrap my heart in His deep sanguine robe,
Ensanguined from the scourge, and nails that probe,
And spear that cleaves! Wrapt in His Blood, O heart,
We must bear witness that His purple dress
Is not the dressing of an actor’s part,
But of a Royalty no woof of man
Might clothe that Day of Woe, nor ever can—
That is the Martyr’s dress.