THE WOOD-CUTTER

We came behind him by the wall, My brethren drew their brands, And they had strength to strike him down— And I to bind his hands. Only once, to a lantern gleam, He turned his face from the wall, And it was as the accusing angel's face On the day when the stars shall fall. I grasped the axe with shaking hands, I stared at the grass I trod; For I feared to see the whole bare heavens Filled with the face of God. I struck: the serpentine slow blood In four arms soaked the moss— Before me, by the living Christ, The blood ran in a cross. Therefore I toil in forests here And pile the wood in stacks, And take no fee from the shivering folk Till I have cleansed the axe. But for a curse God cleared my sight, And where each tree doth grow I see a life with awful eyes, And I must lay it low.