Page:Poems Tynan.djvu/87

This fashioned I of joy,
 Much hope, without a stain,
Pure gold without alloy
 Redeemed in mine own pain.
For this the wine-press trod,
 Ensanguined to the knee.
Afterwards—saith our God—
 Ye will account to Me.

For every needless tear,
 For all the smiles unsmiled,
For lonely wrong and fear
 Wrought on My little child,
Myself will exact the fee,
 A God of wrath and scorn:
Better that day that ye
 Were dead ere ye were born.

Contrariwise—His wrath
 Our Lord God put away—
Your watchful love till death
 I will repay, repay.
Lord of the skies and lands
 Take pity on Thy dust.
Strengthen our mortal hands
 Lest we betray Thy trust!

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