And from the cross’s folly must St. Francis’ sons be freed!
I heard in plaintive chorus nuns sad Miserere sing,
As ceased for them for ever their old convent’s sheltering—
Let them seek aid from Him on high whose faithful sheep they are;
The horses of the hero-king seek not their help so far!
I heard, above th’ exultant fife, the loud-voiced auctioneer
Strike down the church’s garment 'mid the idle jest and jeer
Of souls that trembled not to see the sacred chalice borne
By hands that would have helped of old to press the twisted thorn,
Who would for thirty pieces once their loving Lord have sold—