Or the feet kissed
By her who was the Magdalen—
The sensualist
Is one among a world of men!
Oh, I can look
Upon another’s drama; read
As in a book
Things unrelated to my need;
Give faith’s assent
To that abysmal love outpoured—
But why was rent
Thy seamless coat for me, dear Lord?
Why didst Thou bow
Thy bleeding brows for my heart’s good?
How shall I now
Reach to the mystic hardihood
Where I can take
For personal treasure all Thy loss,
When for my sake,
My sake, Thou didst endure the cross?
For my soul’s worth
Was “It is finished!” loudly cried?
For me the birth,
The sorrows of the Crucified?
CHRISTMAS ON CRUSADE
HERE shall we bivouac beneath the stars;
Gather the remnant of our chivalry
About the crackling fires, and nurse our scars,
And speak no more as fools must, bitterly.
The roads familiar to His feet we trod;
We saw the lonely hills whereon He wept,
Prayed, agonised—dear God of very God!—
And watched the whole world while the whole world slept.