 | The Last Crusade |  |
9
THE WORLD ALTAR.
We have the sense of mortal things and dust,
A touch of human tears
And splendid, spacious fears;
Earth is our mother, and we are close kin
To her with all the sorrow and the sin;
They pierce us like a sword-blade's deadly thrust,
When crownèd sufferers win.
For they, who stand with God on holy mountains,
Have drunk most deeply of the bitter fountains.
A touch of human tears
And splendid, spacious fears;
Earth is our mother, and we are close kin
To her with all the sorrow and the sin;
They pierce us like a sword-blade's deadly thrust,
When crownèd sufferers win.
For they, who stand with God on holy mountains,
Have drunk most deeply of the bitter fountains.
War is the tempest with which Mercy drives
The obscene things away,
Turning to gold brute clay;
Love heals by wounding, and our glorious dead
Build up the Passion with which joy is wed,
Out of the sweetness wrung from martyred lives
That are an altar spread.
For those, who strive to stay the evil forces,
Renew their faith at grand eternal sources.
The obscene things away,
Turning to gold brute clay;
Love heals by wounding, and our glorious dead
Build up the Passion with which joy is wed,
Out of the sweetness wrung from martyred lives
That are an altar spread.
For those, who strive to stay the evil forces,
Renew their faith at grand eternal sources.
By tribulation's crushing shines a path
From shadow grim and shock,
Out of the riven Rock;
Through roar of cannon or the rending steel
That Christ's true soldiers bear but do not feel,
Who struggle in the battle-ground's red wrath
And to His guidance kneel.
There is no better way, no other portal,
Than the great Cross which maketh souls immortal.
From shadow grim and shock,
Out of the riven Rock;
Through roar of cannon or the rending steel
That Christ's true soldiers bear but do not feel,
Who struggle in the battle-ground's red wrath
And to His guidance kneel.
There is no better way, no other portal,
Than the great Cross which maketh souls immortal.
10
Athwart the conflict everlasting runs
Christ's awful conquering march,
Under its fiery arch;
Progress by anguish and against the wind
And that which is most adverse and unkind
Moves on in twilight of eclipsèd suns,
And sorrow steps behind.
But still, beneath the blinding sulphurous curtain
The end draws near, the victory is certain.
Christ's awful conquering march,
Under its fiery arch;
Progress by anguish and against the wind
And that which is most adverse and unkind
Moves on in twilight of eclipsèd suns,
And sorrow steps behind.
But still, beneath the blinding sulphurous curtain
The end draws near, the victory is certain.
God soweth in war's tillage lives of men,
That are the pregnant seed
Of many a fruitful deed;
His plough digs deep and teareth barren soil
To yield at last broad harvest-fields of spoil
And give to ignorant minds a larger ken,
A lamp of deathless oil.
For manhood there is but one perfect measure,
One trust, one truth, and Calvary's one treasure.
That are the pregnant seed
Of many a fruitful deed;
His plough digs deep and teareth barren soil
To yield at last broad harvest-fields of spoil
And give to ignorant minds a larger ken,
A lamp of deathless oil.
For manhood there is but one perfect measure,
One trust, one truth, and Calvary's one treasure.
| The Last Crusade | |