Classic Poem

He saw the drab and dreary town
Upon the mirthless Sabbath day;
All pleasant things had crept away
Like serfs before the master's frown;
The very trees their heads hung down
Upon the mirthless Sabbath day.

Through joy-deserted streets He trod,
The church bells tolling mournfully.
There was no sound of childish glee,
No peal of laughter praising God
Hailed Him that loved the little ones
From Judah unto Galilee.

Barred in His name the magic bower
Of mimic kings and queens that seem,
Where still the fairy-jewels gleam,
And sonant for a little hour —
From faded parchment conjured up
Incarnate walks the poet's dream.

But through a gate obscure and small
He watched a pale-faced stripling crawl
Into a closely-shuttered place
Where Magdalens untouched of grace
Held their unlovely festival,
Wearing the hunted look, uncanny,
Of them that love not much but many.

And right across the house of guilt
Where sweet young lips were made all-wise
In unchaste knowledge, and the wine
Of glorious youth was hourly spilt —
Grinning upon Him like a skull,
With windows bare like sightless eyes,
There rose the House Unbeautiful
Wherein God's holy shrine was built.

And buzzing like a swarm of bees
Around the church's open door,
In long frock coats and tall silk hats,
The sleek, the oily Pharisees
With the complacent smile of yore —
Dear God, how He remembered these!

Upon a cross of ebony
He saw His image painted bleak
With pallid lips that seemed to speak:
" My God, thou hast forsaken me! "
Such was the symbol of their faith —
Not like a godhead, like a wraith
Convulsed with futile agony,
Wherefrom no man might solace seek.
There was no incense in the air,
Never a sweet-faced acolyte,
No priest in sacrificial dress
Trailing with colors strange and bright;
No organ sounded paeans there,
No candelabrum shed its light.
No gleam of hope...of loveliness,
Of awe...or beauty anywhere.

Beside the tabernacle stood,
Choked with things hateful that destroy,
A weazened parson cursing Joy;
And in his veins there flowed no blood.
Upon his tongue were words of grace,
Yet every time he spake afresh
He drove a nail into His flesh,
And praying ...spat into His face!

And, while his curses poured like showers
Upon all things that men hold fair:
The pearls, the satin and the flowers,
Life's graces, perfumed, debonair,
With voice of thunder spake the Master:
" Hold, parson! Cease thy blasphemy! "
" Who art thou, stranger? "
" I am He
Who suffered her of Magdala
With the smooth satin of her hair
To dry His consecrated feet.
And break for Him the alabaster
That held the spikenard rare and sweet. "
The weazened parson deaf and blind
Proceeded of God's wrath to tell,
And of a lad, of one who fell
Through his hot blood and fates unkind,
Whom to the terrors of God's Hell
And to His vengeance he consigned.
Again the voice rose threateningly:
" Hold, parson! Cease thy blasphemy! "
" Who art thou, stranger? "
" I am He
Who in the wilderness forsaken,
There having felt temptation's spur,
Forgave one in adultery taken
And bade ye throw no stone at her! "

And still the parson cursed and whined,
And thus he spoke to womankind:
" Vileness and sin of every shape
Lure in the ferment of the grape.
Seize by the root the fruit malign
That turns all good men into swine! "
" Impious parson, on thy knee!
How dare ye judge your Maker? He
Am I who at His mother's sign,
And for her glory, turned the water
In the six water-pots to wine!
" I am who through the bigot's pride
Of righteous fools is crucified.
All lovely things, if these be slain,
Then were My sacrifice in vain!
For man is not the devil's booty,
Not Mine the scorpion and the rod,
Not sorrow is your heavy duty,
And they that worship Him in beauty
And gladness...are most dear to God.

" Men of the New World, heed Me, bliss
And all God's good gifts are your gain!
From Old World nightmares cleanse your brain:
Columbus has not crossed the main
To open up new worlds to pain!
But he and they who tell you this,
Good folk, betray you with a prayer
As they betrayed Me with a kiss! "

And like mysterious music died
His accents on the shivering air;
And through the heavens opening wide
He vanished where no man might follow.
Roses for thorns were in His hair,
And on His visage, dwelling there,
Those who beheld Him saw, enticed,
The awful beauty of Apollo,

The loving kindness which is Christ —
But, choked with visions that destroy,
Still by the cross the parson stood,
A gibbering madman, cursing Joy!