Classic Poem

Comrade , my friend, when tramp of Romans made,
Through the hushed silence of Gethsemane,
Thy soul to waver if 'twere best for thee,
Strongly to meet with Judas, undismayed,
And drain the poisoned chalice of his lips,
That killed thee, or more prudent, flee
Far to some desert cave of Galilee,
Where the hill-fed brook that scarcely slips
From rock to little pool is kinder far
To the parched water-grass that shyly dips
Within the tide its dainty fronded tips
Than, in the world of men, the gentlest are —
If thou hadst known, within the olive shade,
How men have scorned thee, since, wouldst thou have stayed?

Jesus, dear friend, who loved so gentle-wise
That children lifted up to thy thin cheek
Their ineffectual fingers — as we seek
Through the long years the glory of thy eyes,
And find it not, — Jesus, who loved so well
That strong men followed when they heard thee speak,
Leaving their sagging nets beside the bleak
Wild sea; for whom, unmarked, no fledgling fell
From out the nest, or lily bloomed in vain;
Who heard thrush music like a silver bell
Rise from the road-side hedge, antiphonal,
And stayed the thoughtless hand that would have slain —
If thou hadst known how blind men are and dumb
To all thy pity, wouldst thou, then, have come?

If thou hadst known, dear Jesus, that for thee
Men should lift hands against their brothers, yea,
Should stain those hands with scarlet, ere they pray
At perfumed altars, chanting blasphemy;
Couldst thou have seen men build a temple high
O'er mouldering corpses that with foul decay
Pollute the present with dead Yesterday,
Where money-changers cheat and rascals buy
Their tickets into Heaven, bargaining;
Couldst thou have heard lip-mumblers craftily
Lure through that vast and unsubstantial lie
Men's souls to self-extinction, hungering —
Wouldst thou not, rather, from Gethsemane
Have passed into the darkness quietly?

Hark! Already up the breathless side
Of that lone summit sound the stealthy feet;
The torches flicker; shielding shadows meet
Above thee still, — oh, do not now abide!
Why shouldst thou fling thy glorious purpose there
For knaves to mangle? Moments now will cheat
Them forever; the fields of life are sweet
With unaccomplished fragrance, oh, so fair!
— Forgive me, Jesus, if too yearningly
I seek to touch thy garment's hem in prayer
Across the ages. — Hadst thou been aware
How, in the world-wide Garden of Gethsemane,
Men still with kissing sell thee, crucified
In their own bosoms, wouldst thou, then, have died?

— I will not question. Jesus, thou didst drink
Deep of the cypress cup, and thou didst know
How strangely sweet the dregs are, sinking low;
When that Which Is has melted link by link,
And the pale petals of What Is To Be
Tremble in blooming, through the darkness, so
One wonders if the whiteness stirs, or no;
Then morning dawns, and, unexpectedly,
The Gardener finds that night has blown a rose!
Night holds us now bewildered, and we see
Dim shadow-shapes that shroud mysteriously
The commonest shrub that in the Garden grows;
Morning will come; nor shall I, craven, shrink
Before the cup that thou, dear Lord, didst drink.