THE LAST GOSPEL

When Mass is said, The music dead, And the last lights upon the Altar-throne Drop slowly one by one into the dark, To the east Turns the Priest, And bows his knee before the sacred Ark And whispers the Last Gospel through—alone. So do I When dreams die, And love’s last wretched candle-lights are seen Darkening upon the Altar of your heart, Face the east, And like the Priest Say my Last Gospel through ere I depart, And before leaving bow to What Has Been.

A victim crowned am I, Crowned, piercèd, and adored, In my eyes a flame of fire, In my heart a sword. Christ is my brother dear, Sister to Christ am I, For He has felt the thirsty wound That I must perish by. He came a king uncrowned, Unrobed, the Son of Loss, And so they pierced His body through, And hung Him on the cross. And my love wore no robe, And my love wore no crown, My love a pilgrim was, and trod The roads in pilgrim’s brown. And since my love went thus, A stranger and a dove, You built a cruel wooden cross, And crucified my love. And now you bend the knee —As now we Christ adore— And set your bleeding sacrifice At God’s right hand above the skies, To worship evermore. The third day, from the dead The Saviour rose again, He put on robes of royalty, And sat Him down to reign. But my love shall not rise, My love shall rest and sleep, My love is tired, why should it wake, That your eyes may not weep? For Christ the Saviour has A gentler heart than mine, He lets you crown what you did kill, Of His torn body eat your fill, And make His blood your wine. You shall not use me so— Go far, the world is wide; Why should you wake from its poor rest The heart you crucified? Beneath the tender ground My love shall sleep for aye, No last trump for my love shall sound No resurrection day. A victim crowned am I, Crowned, piercéd, and adored, In my eyes a flame of fire, In my heart a sword.

To-day I keep a feast, with red and white— The red blood and the snow-white innocence Of little souls who had their recompense Before they learned the horrors of the fight. I see them running in their gardens gay, They snatch the colours of the rainbow’s flame, And throw the stars about in childish game, And pull the clouds to pieces for their play. But these are not the throng the king did slay, The babes for whom dark Rachael’s head is bowed— ’Tis not for them her wailing rings so loud; Other and holier Innocents are they. These are the little ones who never wrought Love’s royalest wonder in a mother’s eyes, Who never brought a tender warm surprise With groping lips to breasts till then unsought. These are the fruit of hundredfold desires, Ten thousand dreams begot this laughing band, They fill the cities of a promised land— Long promised, but not given—lost in fires. These are the children I had hoped to show The secret of this life, and all its love— But they are playing with my dreams above, While I plunge on through my dead hopes below. Saved—Oh perhaps from much that I must brave— I worship you, sweet saints!—oh pray for me! The little children that shall never be— The little children I shall never have.

Though thou hast set me many a snare, And cost me many a groan, And causéd feet to slip that were Far dearer than my own— Though thou hast been both sword and gin To others and to me, Yet I recall what thou didst win Once for my soul, and I give thanks to thee. For once, when all my heavens fell, And each hour that went by Brought nearer to the pit of hell The Dayspring which is I— When all unheard the highest cried, When lost were course and goal, When hope had fled and faith had died— Thou, even thou, didst then redeem my soul. Thou broughtest me unto the snow, And thou didst force through me The pumping blood, that I might know How fierce my flesh could be; My flesh—till then half love, half dread— Became an armoured tower, To which my wounded spirit fled, And found a refuge in its bitter hour. Thou didst deny the healing sleep Unless I strove all day With thews and muscles, fierce to keep The wolves of thought at bay; And thou didst crown thyself with strength, And lift thyself on high, And free salvation win at length For the poor soul that thought it was to die. Redemption thou didst work for me, And forth into the light Crept my healed spirit, saved by thee From all the hells of night— And this I never shall forget, And so I can forgive Thy treacheries, and thank thee yet, For ’tis through thee I have found grace to live. And more, for I know that some day A greater wonder thou Shalt work for me, when thou shalt slay What thou hast quickened now. As once thy life did make me whole, So once thy death shall reap Both for thyself and for my soul The last redemption of a long, long sleep.

Sound the trumpet, beat the drum, Lay the purple on his breast, Let my shuddering memories come To salute him in his rest, To bow down to his disgrace, While I cover up his face. Once he led my soul to war, And the thunder of his cry Went before me, fierce and far, Calling me to triumph or die; To his sword I owe my place, But I cover up his face. Scornfully he mocked my fears, ‘Raise the banner!—up and fight! Follow me through blood and tears!’ From the darkness into light, After him, I strove apace, Now I cover up his face. In his eyes I dare not gaze, Lest I should see mirrored there All the white and hungry blaze Of my own eyes’ hot despair, All my shame for his disgrace— So I cover up his face. In my heart he lies in state, Purple sorrow is his pall, Trumps of doom and drums of fate Sound the dead-march of his fall— On his livid brows a crown Of withered bays and laurels brown. At his head tall candles burn, They are hopes that slowly die, At his feet the brazen urn Where my love’s best ashes lie, At his side the broken sword Of his own most solemn word. Fallen hero, I would bring Dreams to deck thine obsequies, Lay them as an offering On thy heart, where sorrow lies, But ’twould spoil thy stately bed, For, like thee, my dreams are dead. Sound the trumpet, beat the drum, Lay the purple on his breast, Bow before his shame, and come To perform each last behest, Give him royal resting-place— But, O cover up his face!

And dost Thou bless the end? O Lord of Life And the Beginning, Lord of the New Birth, Lord of the dancing April days of earth! When the sour chills of Autumn winds are rife, And Summer faints and withers in the strife Of tempests and the strangling grips of dearth, Dost Thou still bless the End? O Lord of the world’s morning!—Thou canst bless, Birth-pangs and travail—Thou hast hallowed all— But canst Thou bless the turning to the wall Of dying eyes? the panting slow distress Of those who fear the clutch of Nothingness? When into death’s cold deeps Thy servants fall, Dost Thou still bless the End? And canst Thou bless the hour when love is dead? Thou seek’st the harmonies of new-strung lyres, Thou art the guardian of new-kindled fires, But when the last of love’s poor life is fled, His ashes to the four winds scatterèd, And my charred soul crept bleeding from the pyres, Dost Thou still bless the End? Yea, Thou dost bless the End—For Thou hast sworn That Thou, Eternal, art the First and Last, Lord of the Future, Thine too is the past, Thine is the night, O high priest of the dawn! Alpha and Omega! both love new-born And love long dead are in Thy hands kept fast, Yea, Thou dost bless the End. Thine are the shadows of the dropping night, Thine are the wastes of lonely moonless seas, The wilted leaves of tossing Autumn trees, Thine the faint cries, the slowly drowning sight Of those who in the gulfs of darkness fight— And dead love sleeps upon Thy mighty knees Ever world without end.