Who made ye mine avengers,
Or told ye of my needs;
“I bless men and ye curse them,
I love them and ye hate;
Ye bite and tear each other,
I suffer long and wait.
“Ye bow to ghastly symbols,
To cross and scourge and thorn;
Ye seek his Syrian manger
Who in the heart is born.
“For the dead Christ, not the living,
Ye watch His empty grave,
Whose life alone within you
Has power to bless and save.
“O blind ones, outward groping,
The idle quest forego;
Who listens to His inward voice
Alone of Him shall know.
“His love all love exceeding
The heart must needs recall,
Its self-surrendering freedom,
Its loss that gaineth all.
“Climb not the holy mountains,
Their eagles know not me;
Seek not the Blessed Islands,
I dwell not in the sea.
“Gone is the mount of Meru,
The triple gods are gone,
And, deaf to all the lama’s prayers,
The Buddha slumbers on.
“No more from rocky Horeb
The smitten waters gush;
Fallen is Bethel’s ladder,
Quenched is the burning bush.
“The jewels of the Urim
And Thummim all are dim;
The fire has left the altar,
The sign the teraphim.
“No more in ark or hill grove
The Holiest abides;
Not in the scroll’s dead letter
The eternal secret hides.
“The eye shall fail that searches
For me the hollow sky;
The far is even as the near,
The low is as the high.
“What if the earth is hiding
Her old faiths, long outworn?
What is it to the changeless truth
That yours shall fail in turn?
“What if the o’erturned altar
Lays bare the ancient lie?
What if the dreams and legends
Of the world’s childhood die?
“Have ye not still my witness
Within yourselves alway,
My hand that on the keys of life
For bliss or bale I lay?
“Still, in perpetual judgment,
I hold assize within,
With sure reward of holiness,
And dread rebuke of sin.
“A light, a guide, a warning,
A presence ever near,
Through the deep silence of the flesh
I reach the inward ear.
“My Gerizim and Ebal
Are in each human soul,
The still, small voice of blessing,
And Sinai’s thunder-roll.
“The stern behest of duty,
The doom-book open thrown,
The heaven ye seek, the hell ye fear,
Are with yourselves alone.”
A gold and purple sunset
Flowed down the broad Moselle;
On hills of vine and meadow lands
The peace of twilight fell.
A slow, cool wind of evening
Blew over leaf and bloom;
And, faint and far, the Angelus
Rang from Saint Matthew’s tomb.
Then up rose Master Echard,
And marvelled: “Can it be
That here, in dream and vision,
The Lord hath talked with me?”
He went his way; behind him
The shrines of saintly dead,
