Mystic Trees by Michael Field [i.e. K. H. Bradley and E. E. Cooper] |
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THE HOMAGE OF DEATH
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94
THE HOMAGE OF DEATH
Tu Nobis, Victor Rex, Miserere
I
How willinglyI yield to Thee
This very dust!
My body—that was not enough!
Fair was it as a silken stuff,
Or as a spice, or gold,
Fair to behold.
II
Beloved, I give Thee allThis Adam's Fall,
This my desert—
Thy Father would not let Thee see
Corruption, but I give it Thee.
Behold me thus abhorred,
My penance, Lord!
III
A handful in Thy Hand,As if of fair, white sand,
Thou wroughtest me;
Clean was I for a little while ...
This dust is of another style;
Its fumes, most vile of sin
To stink begin.
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IV
To yield Thee up my breathWere not enough of death;
Let me deform!
Let me do penance for my sin,
In death's habiliments most thin,
A skeleton, and worse,
Under the curse.
V
As roots of roses mustBe mingled in their dust
With very blood,
Empty Thy Wounds—pour down the red,
Sweet Blood on me of Thy Godhead;
Then gloriously create,
And make me great.
VI
O Victor King, and whenThou raisest me again,
For me no fame:
Just white amid the whiter souls,
Efface me 'mid the shining stoles,
Lost in a lovely brood,
And multitude:
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VII
My soul even as the MaidCophetua arrayed
In samite fine;
And set her by him on his throne.
O Christ, what homage can atone
For this caprice in Thee
To worship me?
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