Upon a cross of ebony He saw His image painted bleak With pallid lips that seemed to speak; “My God, thou hast forsaken me!” Such was the symbol of their faith-- Not like a godhead, like a wraith Convulsed with futile agony, Wherefrom no man might solace seek. There was no incense in the air, Never a sweet-faced acolyte, No priest in sacrificial dress Trailing with colors strange and bright; No organ sounded pæans there, No candelabrum shed its light. No gleam of hope ... of loveliness, Of awe ... or beauty anywhere. Beside the tabernacle stood, Choked with things hateful that destroy, A weazened person cursing Joy; And in his veins there flowed no blood. Upon his tongue were words of grace, Yet every time he spake afresh He drove a nail into His flesh, And praying ... spat into His face! And, while his curses poured like showers Upon all things that men hold fair: The pearls, the satin and the flowers, Life’s graces, perfumed, debonair, With voice of thunder spake the Master: “_Hold, parson! Cease thy blasphemy!_” “Who art thou, stranger?” “_I am He Who suffered her of Magdala With the smooth satin of her hair To dry His consecrated feet, And break for Him the alabaster That held the spikenard rare and sweet._” The weazened parson deaf and blind Proceeded of God’s wrath to tell, And of a lad, of one who fell Through his hot blood and fates unkind, Whom to the terrors of God’s Hell And to His vengeance he consigned. Again the voice rose threateningly: “_Hold, parson! Cease thy blasphemy!_” “Who art thou, stranger?” “_I am He Who in the wilderness forsaken, Plucked from His flesh temptation’s spur, Forgave one in adultery taken And bade ye throw no stone at her!_” And still the parson cursed and whined, And thus he spoke to womankind: “Vileness and sin of every shape Lure in the ferment of the grape. Seize by the root the fruit malign That turns all good men into swine!” “_Impious parson, on thy knee! How dare ye judge your Maker? He Am I who at His mother’s sign, And for her glory, turned the water In the six water-pots to wine!_ “_I am who through the bigot pride Of righteous fools is crucified. All lovely things, if these be slain, Then were My sacrifice in vain! For man is not the devil’s booty, Not mine the scorpion and the rod, Not sorrow is your heavy duty, And they that worship Him in beauty And gladness ... are most dear to God._ “_Men of the New World, heed Me, bliss And all God’s good gifts are your gain! From Old World nightmares cleanse your brain: Columbus has not cross the main To open up new worlds to pain! But he and they who tell you this, Good folk, betray you with a prayer As they betrayed Me with a kiss!_”