Fain would we kneel with Magdalen and weep,
Clasp wounded feet in passionate embrace,
Win with the loved disciple word of grace,
Vigil with God’s woe-stricken Mother keep:
We cannot find Him, and blaspheming cries
From that retreating train still in fierce chorus rise.
Is He not here? Lo! sadly looking down,
Just at our feet a shadow strange we trace
Falling across the sunlit grassy place—
The likeness of three crosses darkly thrown,