" Master, it is good to be,
On the Holy Mount with Thee:
Here, O Master, grant that we
Build Thee tabernacles three;
One for Elias let there be,
For Moses one, and one for Thee. "

Thus exclaimed the chosen Three; —
Spake the sons of Zebedee;
Ever leader of the van,
Spake the fiery fisherman; —
" Here, O Master, grant that we
Evermore abide with Thee. "

But they knew not what they said —
Hark! it thunders overhead;
Lo! the voice of Him who spoke
Shakes the mountain, rends the rock;
While the saints, in clouds of light,
Vanish from their dazzled sight.

Had they with a Seer's ken
Swept the wondrous Future then,
At their feet what scenes had lain!
Steeps of glory, — deeps of pain;
But their heavy eyes of clay
Flashed not with prophetic ray.

Saw they not their Lord and Head
Like a lamb to slaughter led;
Saw Him not in triumph risen
From the Grave's demolished prison;
Nor the cloven flame-tongues fall
On the Spirit's Festival.

Saw they not the rack, the wheel,
Scourging thong, and stabbing steel;
Heard not the mad multitude
Fiercely clamouring for their blood;
And the thronged arena ring
At the tiger's deadly spring.

Saw not Peter's death abhorred;
Saw not Hell-doomed Herod's sword
Dripping with the blood of James;
Saw they not the cauldron's flames,
Nor the island's visioned caves
Washed with wild Ægean waves.

As of old thy chosen Three,
So, O Master, now are we;
On the Mount, like them, we pray,
But we know not what we say;
For through blood, and flame, and strife,
Lies the path that leads to life.