They call the cohort from all sides together.... There is a king, a king of mockery, His kingdom a pretence, An actor to be dressed for all to see, Whose body oozes from the cords or leather That struck with lashes dense-- There is a king to mock, a make-believe To be derided, a poor form to grieve With haughty purple of the robe of state, And acclamations powerless to elate; A victim to be tortured and made grand With clothes whose pomp He cannot understand, Claiming with slavish brow their heritage: There is the mocking of a solemn dupe, With laughter and a jollity of rage. They call together, like the vultures called To feast on what is yet a feast forestalled, The cohort in a troop. O Martyrs, press together from all regions, You have a King, a King for whom you died-- His kingdom built on gems-- And ye are dressed in purple from His side; The stoles of glory, clothing all your legion, His purple to their hems! Press round Him whom the Romans mocked that day, Press round Him, Martyrs; keep His foes at bay! And let me, though far off from your bright red Of vestures triumphing in Blood He shed, Yet wrap my heart in His deep sanguine robe, Ensanguined from the scourge, and nails that probe, And spear that cleaves! Wrapt in His Blood, O heart, We must bear witness that His purple dress Is not the dressing of an actor’s part, But of a Royalty no woof of man Might clothe that Day of Woe, nor ever can-- That is the Martyr’s dress. IN EXTREMIS What is the desert? Thirst, And very immolation’s loneliness! Upon that land of death dry ridges press, Like to sand-drifts on the tongue-- And the sequestered heart through fear will burst. Armies have gone along, Defeated, to oblivion among The naught of those bare sands-- Banners and horses and bright-harnessed bands. None hath beheld the banners wave and slip Abyssward, and the horses, under whip Of crazy dust, plunge down With manes sand-tossed, Beneath the plain they crossed, Making athwart the breadth a little frown, Gone in its very moment, like the smile That followed, as the horsemen flashed awhile Above the grave, and sank bright, and were gone. O desert, full of plots, On lapping water, of sleek palm-tree knots, And isles in haunted channels; cruel earth, Mirage of desolation, grace of dearth, Many have died in anguish at the pain Never to drink those lakes that gibe and wane! “I thirst”--“My God, Thou hast forsaken Me!” Parched, sinking in abysses mortally, O Christ, and there is none to succour Thee, Water of Life, perpetual Deity! A LIGNO