The Crucifix
Oh, slender Christ, upon the Cross before me,
Whose wistful eyes are sad and shaped for tears,
What have we done, of all that you commanded?
Little enough! these last two thousand years.
Should any soul be touched with grace or glory,
Surely such gifts are their possessor's loss:
Hemlock to Socrates, the stake for Bruno,
And, to your young Divinity, the Cross.
That Cross, on which you hung, serene and dying,
Until the last, to your own tenets true,
Praying amid your long drawn torments, "Father
Forgive them, for they know not what they do."
Forgive, forgive us, for our senseless folly,
After these weary centuries, who can?
We, who relinquished priceless consolation,
That else those tender lips had left for Man.
Ours was the cruelty, the wasteful madness,
And ours, alas, th' irrevocable loss,
You touched our anguished world with gentle solace,
And in return, we gave you to the Cross!