Behold, O clustered grapes, His garment rolled, And wrung about His waist in fold on fold! See, there is blood Now on His garment, vest and hood; For He hath leapt upon a loaded vat, And round His motion splashes the wine-fat, Though there is none to play The Vintage-lay. The Word Of God, His name ... But nothing heard Save beat of His lone feet forever stirred To tread the press-- None with Him in His loneliness; No treader with Him in the spume, no man. His flesh shows dusk with wine: since He began He hath not stayed, that forth may pour The Vineyard’s store. He treads The angry grapes ... Their anger spreads, And all its brangling passion sheds In blood. O God, Thy wrath, Thy wine-press He hath trod-- The fume, the carnage, and the murderous heat! Yet all is changed by patience of the feet: The blood sinks down; the vine Is issued wine. O task Of sacrifice, That we may bask In clemency and keep an undreamt Pasch! O Treader lone, How pitiful Thy shadow thrown Athwart the lake of wine that Thou hast made! O Thou, most desolate, with limbs that wade Among the berries, dark and wet, Thee we forget! ENTBEHREN SOLLST DU ’Neath the Garden of Gethsemane’s Olive-wood, Thou didst cast Thy will away from Thee In Thy blood. Through the shade, when torches spat their light, And arms shone, Thou didst find Thy lovers and Thy friends Were all gone. In the Judgment Hall, Thy hands and feet Bound with cord, Thou didst lose Thy freedom’s sweetness--all Thy freedom, Lord. In the Soldiers’ Hall, Thy Sovereignty Laughed to naught, Thou wert scourged, Thy brow by bramble-wreath Sharply caught. Stripped of vest and garments Thou didst lie, Mid hill-moss, Naked, helpless as a nurse’s child, On Thy cross. Raised, Thou gavest to another son, Standing by, Her who bore Thee once, and, deep in pain, Watched Thee die. All was cast away from Thee; and then, With wild drouth, “Why dost Thou forsake me, Father?” broke From Thy mouth. Everything gone from Thee, even daylight; None to trust; Thou didst render up Thy holy Life To the dust. Help me, from my passion, to recall Thy sheer loss, And adore the sovereign nakedness Of Thy Cross! FREGIT On the night of dedication Of Thyself as our oblation, Christ, Belovèd, Thou didst take In Thy very hands and break....