There knocked One nightly at the harlot's house;
Wan was His mouth as kisses without love.
His groping fingers followed tremulous
The winding of her delicate thin veins;
He traced the waxen contour of her breast,
And then, as baffled in some strange pursuit,
Drew her to Him in weariest embrace;
And, as she shuddered in His grasp, He watched,
Still passionless, the working of her throat.
The woman's cheek grew crimson as He gazed,
But He, a scowling and disgruntled guest,
Rose white and famished from her body's feast.
Yet one night, pausing half-way, He turned back,
Lured by the wraith of long-departed hope;
And then He asked of her a monstrous thing…
The strumpet blanched and, rising from the couch,
Spat in His face.
Straightway the Stranger's eye
Blazoned exultant with the pilgrim's joy
When ends the quest. He lifted up His hands
In quiet benediction, and a light
Miraculous upon His forehead shone.
But she, being blind, still cursed Him, and reviled:
“Albeit I sell my body for very shame
I am a woman, not a beast; but thou—”
“And I,” quoth he, “a Seeker after God.”