University of Virginia Library

CHRISTUS ET ECCLESIA.

I. Part I.

I sing a song, ancient and pitiful, the wonder of earth and heaven,

Of two lovers, affianced before the worlds were made, who could only be united through death.

Fair are they in each other's sight, and joyful in

their hour of meeting; but the day of their espousals is bitter.

And if ye ask me to unfold these marvels, I answer, I was not by when the threads were spun

Which weave unseen their meshes between Hades and heaven and earth.

I know not why she, beloved by one so mighty, was abject; why he, the Lord of all things, was suffering and opprest.

I know not why his life was painful and his death so full of shame; I only know that it was for her he endured both life and death.

And for her truly he died once; but how often hath she died for him?

For his sake she died to all things that make life lovely; yea, even unto love itself.

And if hers was the glory of the union, had she indeed all the gain?

Is it well with the rough frieze frayed and fretted with the costly inwrought thread of gold?

With the frail jar of porcelain in which an acorn lies buried; with the soul that travails with a mighty incessant birth?

Is it well with the life that is dear unto one far distant, and hated by the many who are near?

She lived unbeloved by the mother who bare her; her brethren were full of guile;

Their words to her were now harsh, now mocking; they brooked not that she should be their queen.

Dark secrets and spells were round her, mystery, and bondage, and fear. When she plucked the white woodland flower,

A groan went through the crowded forest, which said, Thou hast torn out thy mother's heart;

So that, wounded by the thorn and brier, she became like unto them she dwelt with; one grieving and causing grief.

She disdained the little sister who alone loved her; the sister whom it was given her to rear.

She was proud; for though she seemed forsaken, she knew she was beloved by a king.

And she had listened to the voice of charmers, who told her that she could not err;

Till she, who had only learnt to walk through

falling, who spoke ever with a stammering tongue,

Had said, “My footsteps are unerring; when I speak there is none who can gainsay.

I deceive not, nor can any deceive me.” Yet who hath so oft wandered, who been so oft beguiled as she?

Yet was she beloved in all her wanderings, beloved and watched over from afar.

And I too loved this woman, and followed her through every change;

For I saw that she of all beings created alone had learnt how to love.

And her song was sweeter to me than that of the bird, her smile dearer than the spring's first opening flower.

I mourned when I saw her wander; for her I pleaded and wept.

II. Part II.

And a time passed over the woman, a time, and a wondrous change.

For I saw her who had strayed in the dim forest, who had hidden in the darksome cave;

Whom the wild beasts of the wood had pitied, whom the wild fruits of the wood had fed;

Wrap round her in careless splendour the purple to which she was not born;

A robe inwrought with gold and scarlet, a seamless yet not a stainless robe;

Her feet that had been bare and bleeding trod now upon the necks of kings.

Her lords were they, and yet her vassals; she ruled over them by many spells,

For she could both frown and flatter; she was their queen, their mistress, their slave.

She gave them drink of the wine of her enchantments, full mixed, and poured from a cup of gold.

She flung within it a pearl most precious, where-with the whole world had been too dearly bought.

And in it, too, was mingled the life-blood of a heavenly and of a human vine.

She spared not for the crushing of the grape, its warm tendril, nor its fragrant shoot;

When she needed her balms and odours, the trees of the forest wept.

Nor took she any thought for their wounding, for she trafficked in costly wares,

Ivory, and amber, and coral, the persons and the souls of men.

Her rowers brought her into deep waters; their oars flashed silver to the sun.

For her, too, wrought many craftsmen; the heavy hammer fell

So loud, that one might scarce hear beneath it the beat of either pulse or heart;

But where she came, still followed the clink of an unseen chain.

She spake fair unto him she hated, unto him who hated her sore.

For he who had known how to draw after him the third part of the stars of heaven,

Knew what was among them written of the Woman and of her Seed.

And the Dragon hateth the Woman; yet oft did I behold them as friends.

And when I looked thereon, I marvelled; I marvelled, but I loved her still.

For she was alone and sorrowful; of her sons there were none to guide her.

And ofttimes would she rise up hastily; she fled into the wilderness, she cast aside her ornaments of gold,

And spake of him whom she alone loved, and said, “I am a widow, and no queen!”

And for her I mourned exceedingly; for her I pleaded and wept,

That for her there might yet be found on high a Watcher and a Holy One prevailing,

And for her, among the tender grass, a Root still wet with the dews of heaven.

III. Part III.

Yet once again I looked upon this woman, in a time that is yet to come.

It was given unto me to see her, because I had loved her well.

I saw her in a time when it grew towards evening, and the light lay low upon the hills,

In a valley which was wide and desert, beside a river unfed by any stream.

Unfed was that river, but ever feeding; it brought with it the wealth it caused.

For though its banks were even like the emerald, beyond them strotched the desert sands.

But close by the side of the woman sprang up an ever-springing well,

Over-arched by a lofty palm-tree, and bordered by the flowering rush;

And a slender rill flowed from it, whereat a wolf lapped even as he ran.

A lion lay couchant near, beside him were three small white loaves.

And I saw that a time had passed over the woman, a time and a wondrous change;

For she was brown and furrowed as the desert round her, and her attire was poor and mean;

Gray hairs were upon her, but she regarded them not, for by her side walked one who was young,

And his apparel was soft and delicate, such as is worn by the dwellers in the houses of kings.

Yet she was in his eyes as one who found favour; he had said unto her, “Thou art all fair.”

She spoke unto him in many words, but it was only given to me to hear a few:

“Culpa mea, mea maxima culpa, maxissima culpa mea.”

Often had these words been spoken in her ear, in many a secret and solitary place;

But now that she had taken them upon her lips, they were sweeter to him than her sweetest song;

More costly than had been her bitterest tear; more precious than the life-blood she had given for him of old.

And he whom she had ever loved heard her. He spake unto her good and comfortable words.

She went up from the wilderness leaning on her beloved; and I knew that they would part no more.