And stained on the ground, choked with thorn and rank thistle,

"Rots a worm-eaten Christ on a mouldering Cross.

From the House of my fathers, distraught, broken-hearted,

With a pang of immense, irredeemable loss,

[76]

"On my wearying pilgrimage blindly I started

To seek thee, oh Love, in high places and low,

And instead of the glories for ever departed,

"To warm my starved life in thy mightier glow.

For I deemed thee a Presence ringed round with all splendour,

With a sceptre in hand and a crown on thy brow;

"And, behold, thou art helpless—most helpless to tender

Thy service to others, who needest their care.

Yea, now that I find thee a weak child and slender,

"Exposed to the blast of the merciless air,

Like a lamb that is shorn, like a leaf that is shaken,

What, Love, now is left but to die in despair?

[77]

"For Death is the mother of all the forsaken,

The grave a strait bed where she rocks them to rest,

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