50
THE ALTAR OF THE RIGHTEOUSNESS
What word, what praise, what passion of hopeless
prayer,
May now rise up to thee, loud as in years that were,
From years that gaze on the works of thy servants
wrought
While strength was in them to satiate the lust of thought
That craved in thy name for blood as the quest it
sought?
From the dark high places of Rome
Far over the westward foam
God's heaven and the sun saw swell
The fires of the high priest's hell,
And shrank as they curled and clomb
And revelled and ravaged and fell.
IV
wasting flame
By the sons of the priests that had slain thee, whose evil
was wrought in thy name.
