(Written at Sailly, France, 1915)
O pallid Christ within this broken shrine,
Not those torn Hands and not that Heart of Thine
Have given the nations blood to drink like wine.
Through weary years and 'neath the changing skies
Men turned their back on those appealing Eyes
And scorned as vain Thine awful Sacrifice.
Kings with their armies, children in their play,
Have passed unheeding down this shell-ploughed way:
The great world knew not where its true strength lay.