University of Virginia Library

Christ will return.' The Church is in high state,
The mighty conquest of the world is made;
The mitred priests in robes of purple wait
Before triumphal altars richly laid
With the memorial feast in chalice fine,
And chiselled paten; no way harsh and rude
Leads to the taking of that food divine
But steps of alabaster; no rough wood
Is now the cross, but a great golden sign
Of outstretched power that holds the earth in sway,
Whereto great folk on cushions kneel and pray.

The Church is waiting. It has fought right well,
And now, the battle over, swords are sheathed,
And no one talks of blood, and few of Hell.
And when on festal days, with sighs low breathed,
Set to time-honoured strains, they chant or tell
That story of the Founder's cross, blood-stained,
That was of wood; all heads with reverence bend
But no one weeps, because the cause is gained.
No mother's shriek of Mary comes to rend
The silence; but the crowd, with seemly look,
Worshipped and worshipping, serenely prays
Its perfumed prayer out of its ivory book.
Now sits, now kneels, now rises all demure,
While rustles through the church the soft secure
Demi-religion of these prosperous days.

The Church is waiting. With no crown of thorns
In the great picture of the story.
Ah! what a glittering halo now adorns
Each rich-robed Saint; and where, 'mid all the glory
Of vestments rich, are Joseph's working-coat
And Mary's rags? It is a throne that waits;
For 'tis become a fair thing to devote
A portion of one's goods to Church estates,
Holy endowments, and choice charities.
And they are all the nobles of the earth
Who kneel, the richest where it holiest is,
Ranged round the throne according to their worth.
Great folk no whit ashamed now to beseech
That Nazarene to come and be their king;
For Christ's religion is a comely thing
Well looked on, and the Church has grown quite rich.

But Christ is very poor!
He has no purple robe and wears no crown.
How will He find His way from town to town?
Who will proclaim Him King,
And give Him great renown,
As He goes from door to door?
He has no goods nor gold
More than He had of old.
Who will His praises sing?
He has no garment of fine linen sweet,
To enter palaces, and sit at meat
At rich men's tables. Who will take His hand,
And set Him high in the land?
There is no halo round His head;
Nay, who will give Him bread,
And bid Him rest His feet?
He has no house to go to, and no bed,—
Like a beggar in the street.

He has only love!
Yea, and hard things to teach,
With a strange and vehement speech,
Against the great of the earth,
And every law but love.
Who will give Him His worth?
Who will hear Him preach?
He has not changed!
He loves what rich men hate,
He would spoil their high estate,
Their houses well arranged,
And give their goods to the poor;
He loves what priests have cursed;
If He enters His own church-door,
He will hear no prayers rehearsed,
No praises sung.
He will bid them serve Him no more,
Till the golden vessels are flung
To the flames, and the cross on high
Is broken upon the floor.
It will be to raise a cry,
It will be to scatter the gold,
And cause the priests to fly—
It will be to purge as of old.

He has only love!
Shall He go to the house of the great?
Shall He take His place above
All the officers of state?
Shall He go and sit on the throne?
Shall He rule His Church, His own?
Shall He come to the men set apart—
To the women whose goodness is known—
Shall He knock at the door of each heart?

The rich love wealth and fame,
Forgetting whence they came.
The officer loves the place
Above his place, and to sit,
Respected and with good grace,
Among men—their Christ, to wit,
To whom they make their prayer,
Is a minister or the mayor,
This worthy or that other,
Small love have they to greet
A poor or ill-dressed brother,
Or a beggar out of the street.
And 'tis not they will believe
In the Christ with a tattered sleeve.
The king loves to be king.
If his kingdom comes to fall,
He hates all men and everything,
And his countrymen first of all.
All other kings are his foes,
But most of them all he hates
The uncrowned king who goes,
From heart to heart and prates
Of a kingdom for which he waits;
And the beggar in the street
Is the man he fears to meet.

The Priests love patronage,
Fat livings and Peter's pence,
And charities that engage
Great folk bringing recompence
Of power; women they cheat,
And men keep silence for fear
To lose what they hold most sweet.
The Christ the priest holds dear
Is gentle and musical.
A murmur of genteel prayer,
Mellow and rhythmical,
A perfume of piety;
His service is, above all,
A thing of good society.

The brazen censer is swung,
No heart has been sorely wrung;
The words of blessing are sweet,
And the evening hymn is sung,
But the Christ outside in the street,
Is begging for bread to eat.

When wilt thou come, O Christ? Come not to these
They will not know Thee. There are those will know:
Things have scarce changed since by those peaceful seas
Of Galilee it was Thy wont to go,
And sitting with the lowly—Thyself low—
To tell the folk of love, of love to ease
The burdens of their labour and their heart,
Of love to shrive them of their sin, of love
To shrink not from their shame, and bear a part
Of their reproach. Art Thou to-day above
Hearing their sorrows? Wouldst Thou sit to-day
In the high throne the rich have set for Thee,
The rich men and the priests? the same are they
Who scourged and cast Thee out in Galilee.
But there are outcast folk on other shores
Dragging the nets, lo! they have taken nought,—
Their heart is heavy as they ply the oars,
Their lives are full of woe; no man has sought
To solace them. Go, enter Thou their boat,
Tossed in the storm, and speak one little word
Of comfort, and their skiff will seem to float
On a less troubled sea, their hearts be stirred
With a new strength; soon will their net be full,
And going home, they shall believe they heard
God's voice above the tempest, pitiful,
More than a man's.

Lo! in the streets and lanes
Seest Thou, O Christ, the starved ones know Thee now?
Not yet forgetting—though their sick hope wanes,
As day by day Thou comest not—'twas Thou
Didst feed them once, the day Thy word increased
The scanty viands, and the crumbs that through
Thy sweet word's miracle became a feast.
No man hath fed them since, or if one threw
A bitter morsel to them in Thy name,
Missing Thy word, they knew 'twas none of Thine.

Come unto those who suffer; sin and shame
Are stamped on all alike, but when they pine,
All hopeless, there are some whose sin God knows
Was not their own, whose mark of shame was set
Upon them in the shameful world by those
Who ne'er had cast the stone hadst Thou but met
Their guileful glance with Thine all-seeing gaze,
And made them cower. Now 'tis with Thine own word
That world has cursed them, so they dare not raise
Their hearts to Thee; yet have they never heard
The mercy that Thou sent'st them long ago.
See Magdalen in tears upon the ground,
Spurned once of yore by hard-eyed priests; and lo!
The poor Samaritan, outside the bound
Set by self-righteous judges, fears to cross
Threshold of church and synagogue alike.

Come unto thsoe who seek through shame and loss
Of goods, and prisons, and bitter deaths, to strike
With the same sword Thou hadst of old, when men
Cried Peace, and there was no peace; those who fight,
And strive, and plan, and dream, as Thou didst then,
Now to uproot these shams; those who would smite
Yon smooth-faced tyrants on the lips, and blast
With the long-smouldering fires of man's chained soul
Their pompous edifice of wiles: at last
Freeing the fettered, shamed, downtrodden whole
And fair humanity of man. These are of Thee,
Pure, fearless young Reformer! they will clutch
New hope with fervour when they faint or flee,
Spent or in exile, when Thy feet but touch
The earth once more; rent, never restful graves
Will give them back to life, the too-soon slain
Before their victory; and o'er the waves
And mountains of the world the cry again
Will be Thy name, the true Christ comes and saves!

Come unto those who love. They have thrown down
The gold they had, cast off the costly dress,
Forsaken a throne and laid aside a crown,
Because of love; now they are penniless,
As Thou art, having nought else; all men bemoan,
Or mock, or brand them with an evil name.
But sitting in their penury alone,
Or wandering in the desert of their shame,
Or dying with eyes wide open in amaze
To find themselves deceived, betrayed, undone,
Have they repented? As the days
Close round them and they turn them from the sun,
Wasted and broken, when their words grow weak,
Their weeping silent, their unanswered sighs
Scarce part their lips, as having nought to seek,
Earth falling from them, are there not inward skies
Opening to heaven since the flame, I say,
Transmuted all their lives into their love,
Casting the days of them for dross away?
Come unto these, O Christ! they live above
The world, as Thou didst.

Crowned with griefs Thou art,
Clad in rough rags, dishonoured or unknown;
And so are these who love, they are Thine own.
Come, for they need Thee! lay Thy bleeding heart
Against theirs broken; make their love a part
Of Thy love—let them weep their tears with Thine;
Pour out to Thee the woe that makes divine,
Not of the world, their lives. These who have given
And lost their love without a hope of heaven,
Will see Thee coming from the bitter ways
And deserts, from the life of wasted days,
Footweary, bearing within a burden wrought
Of every man's refusal. God having sought
Love in each offered prayer; Christ having tried
The door of every heart for love, and cried
Sorely and waited; Man having taken Thy stand
In each man's path, and begged for love with hand
Out-held, begging for bread, now clothed withal
In shreds, the greatest beggar, yea, in all
The world, since only shreds Thy robes will be
Of love the world could give—these will see
Thee coming, and run and fetch Thee to their home,
And Thou shalt rest at last. When Thou art come,
These will bring water, greet Thee with a kiss,
Share the last crust with Thee; Thou shalt not miss
The love Thou seek'st in vain, for falling down,
Breaking the precious vessel of their own
Tear-laden hearts upon Thy weary feet,
So they will wash and ease them with the sweet
Weeping of all their lives; and it may be
That I, having shown men things they will not see,
Having spoken to the unreplying soul
Of man and woman, having poured out the whole
Vain-ruined heaven within me on the snows
And deathly ways of life, shall be of those
Sitting alone at last, whom even Thou,
Before whose effigy men falsely bow,
Ever rejecting Thee, wilt come a-thirst,
A-hungered, greatest, saddest, most accurst
Of all the world, and have that hopeless last
Outpouring of our hearts; and as we cast
Our fallen, piteous look at Thy bent head,
Thou mayst be known in breaking of our last bread
To me and them! O keep that dying tryst!
Come unto those when Thou return'st, O Christ!
Having loved others, shall they not love Thee?
Come! Thou shalt save perchance that few and me.

But avoid the Cardinal's palace: seeing Thee poor,
His serving-men may drive Thee from the door.