Classic Poem

Not fame; not high repute; not praise of men;
 Not to be worshipped loudly when he died
 As king or poet,—honoured far and wide;
No pedestal of large renown to gain;
Only the pangs of immemorial pain:—
 For his chief honour? To be crucified.—
 For his companions? Thieves on either side.—
For his bright cordon? The slow red blood-stain.—

This was his crown. To die mid shouts of scorn;
 Lonely, forsaken, yes of God it seemed,
Pain-stricken, cursed, unutterably forlorn,—
 While even yet with love the deep eyes gleamed.
To be the man of all men most downtrod—
These were the laurels of the Son of God.