Thou liest, Christ, Thou liest; take it hence,

* Be ye therefore perfect.
* You cannot argue with the choice of the soul.

GO, bitter Christ, grim Christ! haul if Thou wilt
Thy bloody cross to Thine own bleak Calvary!
When did I bind Thee suffer for my guilt
To bind intolerable claims on me?
I loathe Thy sacrifice; I am sick of Thee.

They say Thou reignest from the Cross. Thou dost,
And like a tyrant. Thou dost rule by tears,
Thou womanish Son of woman. Cease to thrust
Thy sordid tale of sorrows in my ears,
Jarring the music of my few, short years.

Silence! I say it is a sordid tale,
And Thou with glamour hast bewitched us all;
We straggle forth to gape upon a Graal,
Sink into a stinking mire, are lost and fall . . .
The cup is wormwood and the drink is gall.

I am battered and broken and weary and out of heart, I will not listen to talk of heroic things, But be content to play some simple part, Freed from preposterous, wild imaginings . . . Men were not made to walk as priests and kings.

That mirror of strange glories; I am I;
What wouldst Thou make of me? O cruel pretence,
Drive me not mad with the mockery
Of that most lovely, unattainable lie!

I hear Thy trumpets in the breaking morn, I hear them restless in the resonant night, Or sounding down the long winds over the corn Before Thee riding in the world's despite, Insolent with adventure, laughter-light.

They blow aloud between love's lips and mine, Sing to my feasting in the minstrel's stead, Ring from the cup where I would pour the wine, Rouse the uneasy echoes about my bed . . . They will blow through my grave when I am dead.

O King, O Captain, wasted, wan with scourging, Strong beyond speech and wonderful with woe, Whither, relentless, wilt Thou still be urging Thy maimed and halt that have not strength to go? . . . Peace, peace, I follow. Why must we love Thee so?