Classic Poem

CROWNED WITH T HORNS

Thou that a brave brief space didst keep the gate,
Against the German, saving all the West,
By the subjection of thy shielding breast
To the brute blows and utmost shames of Fate;
Thou that in bonds of iron dost expiate
Thy nobleness as crime! Even thus oppressed,
Is not thy spirit mystically blest,
O little Belgium, marvellously great?

Thou that hast prized the soul above the flesh,
Dost thou not, starving, eat of angels' bread?
With every sunrise crucified afresh,
Has not this guerdon for all time sufficed —
That thou shouldst wear upon thy haggard head
The awful honor of the Crown of Christ?