Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold :: :: University of Virginia Library

I saw a Crimson Cross set on a bitter hill,
The red sun hid his face, the troubled earth stood still,
While all the powers of hell worked out their wicked will.

Upon it hung a Form, with hands upraised to bless
The murderous foes whose sins He suffered to redress,
In crowned and conquering woe an awful Loveliness.

And from each pleading wound that opened scarlet lips
The great drops trickled down on spearheads' iron tips,
And all but that dear Face was robed in dread eclipse.

But round the Cross there rolled a ghastly shadowed shine,
That showed the features yet and every tortured line
Bathed in the Love that filled those Human eyes Divine.

The darkness like a sea washed on with stifling waves
Against it, and behold! from rended rocky caves,
Upstarted all the sheeted dead in dusty graves.

And out of every tomb and dim unquiet deep,
The buried things of ages left their haunted sleep,
And came as ghostly shapes around the Cross to weep.

A fearful silence gathered up the world, and slid
Upon each waiting heart, like death itself, and hid
And hushed the stormy beats as with a coffin lid.

The very birds were dumb and frozen in mid song
Beneath the crushing pall of that gigantic wrong,
Which with consenting Heaven and earth grew fresh and strong.

136

A horror crept from brow to brow in cursèd might,
With muttered oaths and agony of bane and blight,
And in the aching breast was shadow more than night.

But there that patient Figure in the blasting ray
Which fell on Him alone as with a dawnèd day,
Still stood with outstretched hands that seemed to watch and pray.

And from His withered Face and from His wounded side
Compassion writ with blood welled in a saving tide,
Around His foes and slayers in their palaced pride.

And then, as He in lone unutterable shame
Hung on the Crimson Cross with spent and bleeding frame,
A solitary Bird to Him with succour came.

Though it could do but little and in strength was weak,
And had no helping arm nor word of hope to speak,
It brought a drop of dew within its tiny beak.

It touched the fevered lips that were so white and worn,
And for a moment cooled the forehead pierced and torn,
But tried and tried in vain to break one cruel thorn.

And on the panting bosom one red drop was shed
That fell in benediction from that holy Head,
And would have quickened dust that lay for centuries dead.

But now the Blessèd Bird for ever wears the mark
As witness to the Truth in every region dark,
And flashes through all time its clear and crimson spark.

And, lo, when that sweet act of tender aid was done
Which made the earth and Heaven and man and Nature one,
God smiled in unveiled love upon His dying Son.

And on the quaking rocks and to the curtained sky
Rang out in solemn stillness one great Conqueror's cry,
Which opened up a door into eternity.

137

But, when I looked again, the Sacred Form was gone
And through the shadow of a Cross the sunlight shone,
While the world's groaning wheels went grinding dimly on.

And, ah, a thin red streak which nothing now could stay
Rose from the awful ground which hallowed ever lay,
And through all years and tears pursued its precious way.

Forth ran that weary dread dicomfortable Path
And over it the sky stooped in one cloud of wrath,
For bitter was the fruit though rich the aftermath.

It started from the Cross, as in the veinèd flesh
With every nerve that throbs throughout that living mesh
A ruddy gash is cut and staunched and bleeds afresh.

At first the Path of Pain seemed faltering and faint,
And though it travelled on unturned by evil's taint
Yet it was paved with bones of many a martyred saint.

O maidens bright and pure were pilgrims on the track,
And when the boding air with death and doom was black
They still went humbly forth and never one looked back.

But oft they gave their gentle bodies to the foe
And suffered nameless wrong, and as with earthquake throe,
Exhaled sweet lives as flowers upon that way of woe.

A tide of troubled figures as in tossing waves,
The old and young and queens and kings and crownèd slaves
Rolled down that dreary road and only left their graves.

It gathered everywhere recruits from all the climes,
And filled the broken ranks with soldiers from new times,
While in their happy ears rang blessèd Christmas chimes.

138

And as one pilgrim fell yet others in his place
Stept without stay or fear and broadened out the space,
And radiant was the Cross writ on each upturned face.

The sinking handed on his message to the next,
His shield of faith and sword, his tomb became a text
Of comfort to the weak and hope to hearts perplext.

They ate the bread of sorrow, drank the cup of tears
And spread their table in a wilderness of fears,
But more and mightier grew with hate and hostile years.

They followed no false god of dazzling dream or wraith
But harkened only to the Word the Scripture saith,
And were content with wounds if in the fight of faith.

And wider waxed the road, and brighter burnt the fire,
Which flashed from altars white and calm to Heaven a spire
Of beaconing beauty and an infinite desire.

For hoary-headed men and tottering children came,
And with their ministering blood they fed the flame
Which looked more glorious even beneath the shade of shame.

But higher rose the Path and clearer was it spread,
No more a doubtful track or tiny crimson thread,
It ran and shone betwixt the dying and the dead.

And as it moved it purged the gold from dusky dross,
It gleaned fair jewels out of empty waste and loss,
And every milestone in it was a Crimson Cross.

But as I gazed, behold, the bitter pain was joy,
The thorns and flints were roses that could never cloy,
And martyrdom was gain and earth an idle toy.

The robe of torture was a glad angelic dress,
The cutting sword a kiss, the rack but God's caress,
And killing scathe of scorn a crown of righteousness.

The ugly angry clouds like Azrael's wings took flight,
And all that seemed most wrong became Divinely right,
The grave a portal opening into Peace and Light.

139

I saw throughout the lands and blazoned on the sky
That holy Crimson Cross, when suns and moons went by,
Unto the end of time, from all eternity.

It was the pledge and seal of everlasting Love,
In hecatombs of men and in the murdered dove,
In great and small a witness to the God above.

I marked it sculptured in the trees, and in the frame
Of universal Nature stamped in stone the same,
And painted on the clouds and unconsumed in flame.

For none could raise the house to be his mortal home,
And none could bathe in blue the temple's climbing dome,
Unless he signed the Cross read in the Blessèd Tome.

And none could set his hand to pleasure or to toil,
Or build the living book or pluck from fields their spoil,
Without the shadow of the Cross on page and soil.

For all the earth with all the splendour and the spice,
Was purchased with the Blood and at tremendous price,
And founded on the Cross of solemn sacrifice.

Ah, no two hands could join without the sacred sign,
And no two hearts be one without its pain benign,
And none without the Cross escape the world malign.

It was the latest word—the Cross—it was the first,
And yielding to its law alone could quench our thirst,
Or make the fountains from the stony desert burst.

It was the final form below all other shapes,
The thought beneath the thorn, the acid in the grapes,
The Cross behind the harbour stood on stormy capes.

The monarch who would rule was sceptred with its power,
The Cross gave drudges tools and wisdom's grandest dower—
Beyond the farthest dreams and in the fairest bower.

140

And evermore the Way rose upward and went on,
Though systems fell with countless generations gone,
And broader, brighter, still in dreadful beauty shone.

And shouting multitudes that daily grew more strong
With shield of golden prayer and sword of silver song,
Now like a mighty sea in flood rolled free along.

The dirge of black defeat was changed to triumph tones,
The graves of martyrs clothed with thunder became thrones,
And weary stumbling blocks had turned to stepping stones.

The lurid glare of tempest vanished with the gloom,
And all the sad and sullen atmosphere of doom
Leapt out with laughter and broke into rosy bloom.

The blast of battle ceased, the bloody flags were furl'd,
Sweet children's voices round the rusty cannon purl'd
And played through every iron tideway of the world.

And mounted yet the Path beyond each fear and frown,
While from its track fell rain of richest mercies down,
Till lost in light the Cross of Glory looked a Crown.