347. The Wanderer

AH, Christ, it were enough to know

That brooding on the unborn things

Thou gatherest up the years that go

Like a hen’s brood beneath her wings.

It were enough to know that those,

More evil than the years that fall,

Who heard Thee mocked Thy safe repose

And would not trust Thee at Thy call.

It were enough that Thou hast died,

Because Thyself Thou couldst not save,

Unless by losing from Thy side

Thy sons that drove Thee to Thy grave.

Yet more and more we know and see,

For Golgotha the shade retains

Of Him who died, the Form of Thee,

Of Him who bore Thy fleshly pains.

Nor there alone, this Form shall be

Still seen within us, Thou dost say

Until there shine on earth and sea

Light of the unforeboded Day.

O Christ the Wanderer, marked as Cain,

We know the sign upon Thy brow;

We know the trailing cross, the stain;

The passing footstep whispers now.

It was Thy hand, we learn at last,

That nailed Thee in that far-off year;

Thy hand as now Thou wanderest past,

Drives deep within Thy side the spear.

While evil holds the world in grip

And men revile the eternal powers,

This vision holds Thee lip to lip

Close to our love and makes Thee ours.