Part 4

No sound then in the sacred gloom That blessed the shrine that was our room Except the steady rise of praise To Him who shapes all nights and days Into one final burst of sun; Though with the praise some tears must run In pity of the King’s dear breath That ransomed one of us from death.

The days are mellow for us now; We reap full fields; the heavy bough Bends to us in another land; The ripe fruit falls into our hand. My mother, Job’s dark sister, sits Now in a corner, prays, and knits. Often across her face there flits Remembered pain, to mar her joy, At Whose death gave her back her boy. While I who mouthed my blasphemies, Recalling now His agonies, Am found forever on my knees, Ever to praise her Christ with her, Knowing He can at will confer Magic on miracle to prove And try me when I doubt His love. If I am blind He does not see; If I am lame He halts with me; There is no hood of pain I wear That has not rested on His hair Making Him first initiate Beneath its harsh and hairy weight. He grew with me within the womb; He will receive me at the tomb. He will make plain the misty path He makes me tread in love and wrath, And bending down in peace and grace May wear again my brother’s face.

Somewhere the Southland rears a tree, (And many others there may be Like unto it, that are unknown, Whereon as costly fruit has grown). It stands before a hut of wood In which the Christ Himself once stood-- And those who pass it by may see Nought growing there except a tree, But there are two to testify Who hung on it ... we saw Him die. Its roots were fed with priceless blood. It is the Cross; it is the Rood.

Paris, January 31, 1929.

[Illustration]

Transcriber's Notes

• Italics represented with surrounding _underscores_.

• Small caps converted to ALL CAPS.

• Illustrations relocated close to relevant content.

• Obvious typographic errors silently corrected.

• New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.