89 . The Blessing

THE MASTER He was hungry:

‘Shall we not dine,’ said He,

‘On the good fruit amongst the leaves

Of this delightful tree?’

But oh! the fig-tree bore no fruit.

‘Wither,’ He bade it, ‘to the root,

For thus deceiving me.’

The Master He was hungry.

He plucked the grains so red

Of wheat that grew beside the way,

And He was bravely fed.

‘For this,’ He said, ‘I guerdon thee,

Through all the years, a type to be

Of Christ, the Living Bread.’

The Master He was thirsty.

He raised His hand on high,

And crushed the good red grapes that grew

The nearest to the sky.

‘And as thou gavest me drink of thine,

So must I pour my blood, O Vine,

When I for man shall die.’

The Master He was passing

From men He held so dear.

The feast with bread and wine was made;

The Friday Cross was near.

‘Droop not!’ He spoke, and blessed their food:

‘The broken Body and the Blood

Sustain you year by year.’

And corn and wine thenceforth have stood

His symbols everywhere.