 | The hours of the passion and other poems |  |
12
SIMON THE CYRENIAN
Lord, they compelled me, cruel,—merciless,—
Coming out of the country of my dreams,
Dreams innocent and lovely, primroses
And cottage gardens:—and this tumult seems
Something I understand not: but I find
A Cross bound on me I can not unbind,
Heavy beyond man's strength, and as I go,
Heavier with every step it seems to grow,
And with its weight an unimagined pain
Uncoils itself, an ever-lengthening chain.
O dark distress that I am caught within!
Why has this come to pass? What was my sin?
Coming out of the country of my dreams,
Dreams innocent and lovely, primroses
And cottage gardens:—and this tumult seems
Something I understand not: but I find
A Cross bound on me I can not unbind,
Heavy beyond man's strength, and as I go,
Heavier with every step it seems to grow,
And with its weight an unimagined pain
Uncoils itself, an ever-lengthening chain.
O dark distress that I am caught within!
Why has this come to pass? What was my sin?
Thou art a stranger to me,—I Thy name
Have heard methinks, but Thy foot never came
Across my path. I have not heard Thee speak:
A Galilean said they,—and they wreak
Vengeance on Thee,—for what? But I am none
Of Thine, I know Thee not. What have I done,
That I should pass, the scoff and scorn of them
That line the pavements of Jerusalem?
Serving Thee, following Thee, sharing Thy shame,
Bent with Thy burden, branded with Thy name,
While slowly, slowly, through my soul arise
Floods of inexorable agonies
From unknown depths within me, and I drown,
In these dark waters with Thee sinking down.
Have heard methinks, but Thy foot never came
Across my path. I have not heard Thee speak:
A Galilean said they,—and they wreak
Vengeance on Thee,—for what? But I am none
Of Thine, I know Thee not. What have I done,
That I should pass, the scoff and scorn of them
That line the pavements of Jerusalem?
Serving Thee, following Thee, sharing Thy shame,
Bent with Thy burden, branded with Thy name,
While slowly, slowly, through my soul arise
Floods of inexorable agonies
From unknown depths within me, and I drown,
In these dark waters with Thee sinking down.
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I had an errand of my own this morn,
Happy and harmless; but since I have borne
This load disgraceful I can scarce retrieve
The memory of it,—was it years ago,
Or moments, I was free? and I perceive
Already, that this torture will not leave
Me scathless body or soul, and I shall know
No more of peaceful days, nor be made whole
For evermore of this my grievous wrong;
For that the iron hath entered in my soul,
And holds me fastened by my anguish strong,
As though the very nails prepared for Thee
Pierced my own flesh. O thou malignant Tree!
I feel thee that no dead, dry wood thou art,
But the live claws of some great enemy,
That rend and rankle to my inmost heart:
And wherefore then art thou imposed on me?
My life is crushed out from me; in its stead
Fires in my veins, and waters in my head,
A labouring breath that is but one deep groan,
Limbs stretched into a coil of pain alone;
And for the man I was, some one not I,
From whom all hope has vanished utterly,
Who, agonizing, knows he shall not die.
Happy and harmless; but since I have borne
This load disgraceful I can scarce retrieve
The memory of it,—was it years ago,
Or moments, I was free? and I perceive
Already, that this torture will not leave
Me scathless body or soul, and I shall know
No more of peaceful days, nor be made whole
For evermore of this my grievous wrong;
For that the iron hath entered in my soul,
And holds me fastened by my anguish strong,
As though the very nails prepared for Thee
Pierced my own flesh. O thou malignant Tree!
I feel thee that no dead, dry wood thou art,
But the live claws of some great enemy,
That rend and rankle to my inmost heart:
And wherefore then art thou imposed on me?
My life is crushed out from me; in its stead
Fires in my veins, and waters in my head,
A labouring breath that is but one deep groan,
Limbs stretched into a coil of pain alone;
And for the man I was, some one not I,
From whom all hope has vanished utterly,
Who, agonizing, knows he shall not die.
I suffer;—and I suffer innocent:—
Thou sufferest too, to whom my strength is lent.
I see the faces pale before Thy face,
I follow on the stones the blood-drops' trace
That marks Thy passage; Thine o'erwhelming woe
Reaches me only in its overflow.
I feel this agony that shuts me in
Is rather Thine than mine:—I know no sin
Against Thee: who art Thou, that silent thus
Pacest before me this way dolorous,
Unto a bitterer ending. We shall part
When the red-handed executioners
Snatch at their prey, and, mangled as Thou art,
For Thee begin the fresh day's massacres.
Yea, ghastly work on Golgotha is done,
But we move forward to a ghastlier one.
Thou sufferest too, to whom my strength is lent.
I see the faces pale before Thy face,
I follow on the stones the blood-drops' trace
That marks Thy passage; Thine o'erwhelming woe
Reaches me only in its overflow.
I feel this agony that shuts me in
Is rather Thine than mine:—I know no sin
Against Thee: who art Thou, that silent thus
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Unto a bitterer ending. We shall part
When the red-handed executioners
Snatch at their prey, and, mangled as Thou art,
For Thee begin the fresh day's massacres.
Yea, ghastly work on Golgotha is done,
But we move forward to a ghastlier one.
How slow, how slow Thou goest! My own flesh
Is fainting with Thy faintness;—as it were
In my own wounds, the furrows bleed afresh,
The thorns anew spike through the clotted hair.
Upon Thy wounded shoulders the hard load
Slackens itself, because thereunder I
Labour in pain: along this pitiless road
Breaks from Thy breast at least the one less sigh
Through strain and sweat of mine. Yea, Thou and I
Together keep a piteous company
Along a path that still more steep must grow,
And where Thou goest I perforce must go.
Some little edge of every keener stroke
Fastens itself on me; beneath Thy yoke
I grow more near Thee, and Thy pains grow mine,
Deeper and deeper am I pierced through Thee:
But this I share, but this I suffer of Thine,
May it avail, through this my ministry,
One pang to soften of Thy agony.
Would I had more to bear, and could divine
The bond between us, that my soul might call
To Thine beside, and say, ‘Take me, take all!’
Is fainting with Thy faintness;—as it were
In my own wounds, the furrows bleed afresh,
The thorns anew spike through the clotted hair.
Upon Thy wounded shoulders the hard load
Slackens itself, because thereunder I
Labour in pain: along this pitiless road
Breaks from Thy breast at least the one less sigh
Through strain and sweat of mine. Yea, Thou and I
Together keep a piteous company
Along a path that still more steep must grow,
And where Thou goest I perforce must go.
Some little edge of every keener stroke
Fastens itself on me; beneath Thy yoke
I grow more near Thee, and Thy pains grow mine,
Deeper and deeper am I pierced through Thee:
But this I share, but this I suffer of Thine,
May it avail, through this my ministry,
One pang to soften of Thy agony.
Would I had more to bear, and could divine
The bond between us, that my soul might call
To Thine beside, and say, ‘Take me, take all!’
I follow Thee, as one that followeth
The leader he hath chosen until death;
Ever behind Thee, till we come on high;
Then I shall see Thy face, and see Thee die,
And know Thee better:—but my soul is vext
By Now, and Then; and I am much perplext
'Twixt that which is, and was, and is to be.
It seems that I have thus been following Thee
All my life long,—what was it came before
I have forgotten;—it was naught and poor:
And shall I stay with Thee for evermore?
Or shall I lose Thee? lose Thy Cross and Thee?
Then, what were loveliest life and liberty?
All this is strange, unknown;—and who art Thou,
Most unknown, most compelling, who dost bow
My body with Thy burden, and my heart
With heaviness, where Heaven and earth take part?
If I might see Thy face! But I have felt,
If once I saw it my last strength would melt
In an unknown passion of love! So, let it be;
It is enough that I am serving Thee.
The leader he hath chosen until death;
15
Then I shall see Thy face, and see Thee die,
And know Thee better:—but my soul is vext
By Now, and Then; and I am much perplext
'Twixt that which is, and was, and is to be.
It seems that I have thus been following Thee
All my life long,—what was it came before
I have forgotten;—it was naught and poor:
And shall I stay with Thee for evermore?
Or shall I lose Thee? lose Thy Cross and Thee?
Then, what were loveliest life and liberty?
All this is strange, unknown;—and who art Thou,
Most unknown, most compelling, who dost bow
My body with Thy burden, and my heart
With heaviness, where Heaven and earth take part?
If I might see Thy face! But I have felt,
If once I saw it my last strength would melt
In an unknown passion of love! So, let it be;
It is enough that I am serving Thee.
I know, and, Lord, Thou knowest, and to me
It seems no other knoweth, how this Cross
Eats out its path of anguish secretly,
Turning all sense to pain, all life to loss.
Deep in the heart the springs of hope are drained,
And withered is all sweetness at its root;
As if from out the universe remained
But one blank pain perpetual, white and mute.
And yet from this, the bitterest extreme,
I flee no more; and without suffering deem
The daylight void;—a wearier task it were,
Fleet-footed o'er the flowery fields to fare,
Than thus with Thee, for Thee, Thy Cross to bear.
With all its penetrating pain untold,
With all its charm occult, that doth transmute
Itself into the Tree of Life, whose fruit
Some mystery Divine doth yet enfold.
Its weight I bear up to the fatal hill;
Then must it bear thy weight, and must fulfil
The doom which deepens round us as we tread,
Till the dread hours be all accomplished;—
The awful hours to which we still ascend:
But Thee I follow, I follow, to the end!
It seems no other knoweth, how this Cross
Eats out its path of anguish secretly,
Turning all sense to pain, all life to loss.
Deep in the heart the springs of hope are drained,
And withered is all sweetness at its root;
As if from out the universe remained
But one blank pain perpetual, white and mute.
And yet from this, the bitterest extreme,
I flee no more; and without suffering deem
The daylight void;—a wearier task it were,
Fleet-footed o'er the flowery fields to fare,
Than thus with Thee, for Thee, Thy Cross to bear.
With all its penetrating pain untold,
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Itself into the Tree of Life, whose fruit
Some mystery Divine doth yet enfold.
Its weight I bear up to the fatal hill;
Then must it bear thy weight, and must fulfil
The doom which deepens round us as we tread,
Till the dread hours be all accomplished;—
The awful hours to which we still ascend:
But Thee I follow, I follow, to the end!
Thee! In the shadow of Thy sorrow I go,—
All earth and air are throbbing with Thy woe,
Past words to utter, past man's heart to feel:—
Heart of my heart! Thou makest Thine appeal
For more than love, for more than pity,—alas!
What am I that such grace on me should pass
To bring me close to Thee? Thou dost not know,
That I am Thine, that at Thy feet laid low,
For Thee, for Thee, adoring breaks my heart,
Led with the vile to slaughter as Thou art,
Beneath Thy torment bowed, and bound, and bruised:—
I too, within Thy passion found and used,
May henceforth by no power be separate;
Here I abide, bound, fixed, predestinate.
Thou needest me,—yes, even to complete
The last faint passage of Thy failing feet:
I think that Thou wilt never call me friend,
Nor know that in Thy shadow I attend;
Yet once,—O great, mysterious Sufferer,
Turn unto me, and at the last confer
One word on me who am Thy Cross-bearer!
All earth and air are throbbing with Thy woe,
Past words to utter, past man's heart to feel:—
Heart of my heart! Thou makest Thine appeal
For more than love, for more than pity,—alas!
What am I that such grace on me should pass
To bring me close to Thee? Thou dost not know,
That I am Thine, that at Thy feet laid low,
For Thee, for Thee, adoring breaks my heart,
Led with the vile to slaughter as Thou art,
Beneath Thy torment bowed, and bound, and bruised:—
I too, within Thy passion found and used,
May henceforth by no power be separate;
Here I abide, bound, fixed, predestinate.
Thou needest me,—yes, even to complete
The last faint passage of Thy failing feet:
I think that Thou wilt never call me friend,
Nor know that in Thy shadow I attend;
Yet once,—O great, mysterious Sufferer,
Turn unto me, and at the last confer
One word on me who am Thy Cross-bearer!
| The hours of the passion and other poems | |