A holy writing on a sacred scroll,
Rich oil from consecrated vessel poured—
All merit his, the Infinite Son of God,
Whose death so lightly falls on earth’s poor, soulless sod.
Within the painted shadow is no life,
Save in the grassy sward whereon it falls.
Beyond arise the city’s firm-built walls.
With spring’s swift-coursing sap the boughs are rife
Of the gnarled olives with their silver leaves
Shining against the dusky veil the storm-wind weaves.