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Asclepiades:
Wreathe our God with thorns
That crown that blossom'd roses on his hair,
The cup of torment turned to honey wine.
But leave contending of an alien God,
And self-tormenting, sad, cadaverous creed,
Since noontide bids us greet the Father of Light,
With murmured litany and chanted hymn.
(All enter the Temple.)
THE HYMN.
O sure-aim'd stringer of the golden bow!
Laying the marsh-bred mist-born Python low.
Archer!
O Priest, interpreting by secret ways
The ringing tripod's sense, and shaken bays.
Prophet!
