YOURS is the shame and
sorrow
But the disgrace is mine;
Your love was dark and thorough,
Mine was the love of the sun
for a flower
He creates with his shine.
I was diligent to explore
you,
Blossom you stalk by stalk,
Till my fire of creation bore
you
Shrivelling down
in the final dour
Anguish — then I suffered a
balk.
I knew your pain, and it
broke
My
fine, craftsman’s nerve;
Your body quailed at my stroke,
And my courage failed to give
you the last
Fine torture you did deserve.
You are shapely, you are
adorned,
But opaque and dull in the flesh,
Who, had I but pierced with the
thorned
Fire-threshing anguish, were fused and cast
In a lovely
illumined mesh.
Like a painted window: the
best
Suffering burnt through your flesh,
Undrossed it and left it
blest
With a
quivering sweet wisdom of grace: but
now
Who shall take you
afresh?
Now who will burn you
free
From your body’s terrors and dross,
Since the fire has failed in
me?
What man will
stoop in your flesh to plough
The shrieking
cross?
A mute, nearly beautiful
thing
Is
your face, that fills me with shame
As I see it hardening,
Warping the perfect image of
God,
And
darkening my eternal fame.