Classic Poem

Here shall we bivouac beneath the stars;
Gather the remnant of our chivalry
About the crackling fires, and nurse our scars,
And speak no more as fools must, bitterly.

The roads familiar to His feet we trod;
We saw the lonely hills whereon He wept,
Prayed, agonised—dear God of very God!—
And watched the whole world while the whole world slept.

We speak no more in anger; Christian men
Our armies rolled upon you, wave and wave:
But crooked words and swords, O Saracen,
Can only hold what they have given—a grave!

We know Him, know that gibbet whence was torn
The pardon that a felon spoke on sin:
There is more life in His dead crown of thorn
Than in your sweeping horsemen, Saladin!

We speak no more in anger, we will ride
Homeless to our own homes. His bruised head
Had never resting place. Each Christmas-tide
Blossoms the thorn and we are comforted.

Yea, of the sacred cradle of our creed
We are despoiled; the kindly tavern door
Is shut against us in our utmost need—
We know the awful patience of the poor.

We speak no more in anger, for we share
His homelessness. We will forget your scorn.
The bells are ringing in the Christmas air;
God homeless in our homeless homes is born.