PRELUDE. xvii
Armed, we reject you; the bright scourge we ply,
Your howling spirits stumble to your sty:
The worm that was your lie—our heel its head
Bruises, that bruised us once ; the snake is dead.
Who of mankind that honours man discerns
That man of all men, whose high spirit burns,
Crowned over life, and conqueror of death,
The godhood that was Christ of Nazareth—
Who of all men, that will not gird his brand
And purge from priestcraft the uxorious land?
Christ, who lived, died, and lived, that man might be
Tameless and tranquil as the summer sea,
That laughs with love of the broad skies of noon,
And dreams of lazy kissings of the moon,
But listens for the summons of the wind,
Shakes its white mane, and hurls its fury blind
Against oppression, gathers its steep side,
Rears as a springing tiger, flings its tide
Tremendous on the barriers, smites the sand,
And gluts its hunger on the breaking land ;
Engulphing waters fall and overwhelm :—
Christ, who stood dauntless at the shaken helm
On Galilee, who quelled the wrath of God,
And rose triumphant over faith, and trod
With calm victorious feet the icy way
When springtide burgeoned, and the rosy day
Leapt from beneath the splendours of the snow :—
‘Christ, ultimate master of man’s hateful foe,
And lord of his own soul and fate, strikes still
From man’s own heaven, against the lord of ill ;