I.
THE CHRISTS OF THE AGES.
There are whose spirit-pangs do far exceed
The pangs the Hebrew weaveth in his crown:
Not on one Son of God high God smiled down,
But such throughout the foolish centuries bleed.
Oh, thrice accursed is the small dim creed
That cramps its votaries' souls before one Cross;
Poor mole-eyed spirits! they count all sufferings dross
Save Christ's,—the English blood-rose but a weed!
The Christs o' the ages, men and women fair
In spirit as was Christ, or fairer far,
Are crucified indeed—no perfumed air
Of incense-worship crowns them, and no star
Gleams apostolic, fiery, o'er their head:
Men worship not; God worships them instead.
(Written on the eve of Good Friday, March 25, 1880.)
