Classic Poem

— The Monk . A thousand, yes, more than a thousand, years ago
God sent His only Son
to bring peace on earth,
good will to all mankind,
and the Jews took Him
and bound Him
and brought Him before the governor of their land
shouting that He called Himself the Messiah,
that is, their king,
and they scourged the Christ
and put a crown of thorns upon His head
and crucified Him,
as daily they crucify Him still
by their malice towards all Christians
and by their usury which holds in bondage
the bravest.
Many of you have often thought, no doubt,
your fingers itching
for the hilt of your sword or closing tightly
upon your staff, if only you were there
when they led the Lord
through the streets of Jerusalem
or when they nailed Him
to the cross,
how you would have burst through the crowds
to stand beside Him
and have a thrust at that circle of dark faces,
those jeering mouths.
The glory of such a death,
the bliss of it,
were you only there in the muck,
trampled upon by the Jews,
even if no cherubim and seraphim,
angels and archangels
were streaming through the firmament
to greet you,
shouting hosannahs
and singing psalms of praise!
No,
I think you would have denied Him,
as Peter did;
even as He was hanging by His bleeding hands,
you would have denied Him twice or thrice
to the maidservants and the grooms,
before the cocks had crowed;
for is there a town of yours
in which there is not a Jew's stone house,
while many and many a Christian is glad of a hut,
a street along which Jews do not walk, yes, ride,
jingling their spurs,
and none, for all your paternosters, orisons, and masses,
lifts his hand,
and only a child, perhaps,
throws a stone at them
or calls out an unfriendly word.
But your knights
speak softly and pledge them the land of God
for the devil's little coins;
yes, many acres are now in the Jews' chests,
while they go up and down
unashamed before the crucifixes,
sowing a little heresy here,
a little blasphemy there —
brothers in Christ, shall it be said
that the Jew's stone walls and oak door
are stronger than the hands of Christians?
If oak is stronger than flame
and iron than fire,
and a cluster of toadstools
than the step of a man!
Burn and blaze,
step and stamp;
the Jews and their parchments
to the flames,
their children to the font!
— The Painter: Priests and monks
and the preaching friars
may mouth as much as they like
in Latin, or your language,
of Jesus
talking to the fishermen
as they pull in the nets
full of dark seaweed and shining fish;
the blood trickling down His face
in twenty little streams
from the crown of thorns,
and His fingers twisted
about the spikes driven through His hands;
or the ranks of saints
moving before Him in Heaven
as the waves of a stream in sunlight —
you understand their speech because we paint it
on the white-washed walls of churches;
hating whatever is ugly,
preachers,
we paint the knights with lean faces
and smooth yellow hair,
sunburnt and windburnt,
who are not afraid to kill or die for lord or lady,
and the ladies with hollow cheeks,
bodies big with child,
who look proudly out of grey eyes
and give to beggars
with a sidelong glance;
the healing trees
in flower beside the street,
sending their petals to drift upon the stones;
the night
bringing man and beast
smarting in the glare and sweat of day
darkness —
quiet fields and streets;
the day itself
beating with innumerable rays
the night into shadows
and shaping out of chaos
the loveliness
of lifeless and of living things,
washing their colors clean of darkness.
In a field,
feeling the sunshine
as if your flesh were glass —
twigs and leaves in order
on every bush and tree,
bright flowers below,
bright birds about and above —
should you see
the fat body of a snake
and the flat head lifted, eyes watching,
would you not spring away
to catch up a stick and stones;
or, along a road
at dead of night,
toads thumping
about your feet,
would you not step upon the lumps
but for disgust?
The hairy insects
on your table,
the Jews —
brush to the floor
and stamp into the rushes!
The leaves of your city are become
green skeletons
from which hang worms and the white threads
of worms; citizens,
like the rain for number,
splash and dash
against walls and cobblestones —
wash away the Jews!
Set the beauty of flames
to their ugliness;
pick and pluck,
rake and sweep,
kindle;
let not the hair
of a Jew's beard
escape in the wind!
— The Crowd . The burgomaster!
— The Burgomaster . I know you —
shoemakers, makers of hoods or jerkins,
herdsmen, shepherds, and farmers,
merchants of cheese and wool,
priests and soldiers;
so were your fathers,
so your sons,
by sunlight and starlight in our places —
in fields and streets,
in houses, church or castle,
with love and charity
to those below us, in obedience and love
to those above,
from sacrament to sacrament,
from baptism to extreme unction.
But what are you in the city,
one of the synagogue?
A Jew,
come from the east or west,
and going north or south;
no trade but buyer and seller,
no merchandise but money;
every man's servant
and the liege of none;
pulling off his cap to the peasants
and saying, my lords, but in his heart calling the lords louts.
We have no need of you
and no place for you;
we did not bid you come
and will not let you go —
what you have gathered
here and in all Christendom
shall be the harvest
your blood shall grow for us
between the cobblestones of our streets.