Classic Poem

See how the plated gates unfold,
How swing the creaking doors of brass!
With drums and gleaming arms, behold
Christ's regal cohorts pass!

Shall Christ not have His chosen men,
Nor lead His crested knights so tall,
Superb upon their horses, when
The world's last cities fall?

Ah, no! These few, the maimed, the dumb,
The saints of every lazar's den.
The earth's off-scourings — they come
From desert and from fen.

To break the terror of the night,
Black dreams and dreadful mysteries,
And proud, lost empires in their might,
And chains and tyrannies.

There ride no gold-encinctured kings
Against the potentates of earth;
God chooses all the weakest things,
And gives Himself in birth.

With beaten slaves to draw His breath,
And sleeps with foxes on the moor,
With malefactors shares His death,
Tattered and worn and poor.

See how the plated gates unfold,
How swing the creaking doors of brass!
Victorious in defeat — behold,
Christ and His cohorts pass!