XVII.

_TO JESUS CHRIST._

_I tuo' seguaci._

Thy followers to-day are less like Thee, The crucified, than those who made Thee die, Good Jesus, wandering all ways awry From rules prescribed in Thy wise charity. The saints now most esteemed love lying lips, Lust, strife, injustice; sweet to them the cry Drawn forth by monstrous pangs from men that die: So many plagues hath not the Apocalypse As these wherewith they smite Thy friends ignored-- Even as I am; search my heart, and know; My life, my sufferings bear Thy stamp and sign. If Thou return to earth, come armed; for lo, Thy foes prepare fresh crosses for Thee, Lord! Not Turks, not Jews, but they who call them Thine.