empty house. And Pontius Pilatus is here also: He stands in awe before you, And still questions you, But he dares not risk his station or defy an alien race; And he is still washing his hands. Even now Jerusalem holds the basin and Rome the ewer, And betwixt the two thousand thousand hands would be washed to whiteness.
Master, Master Poet, Master of words sung and spoken, They have builded temples to house your name, And upon every height they have raised your cross, A sign and a symbol to guide their wayward feet, But not unto your joy. Your joy is a hill beyond their vision, And it does not comfort them. They would honour the man unknown to them. And what consolation is there in a man like themselves, a man whose kindliness is like their own kindliness, A god whose love is like their own love, And whose mercy is in their own mercy? They honour not the man, the living man, The first man who opened His eyes and gazed at the sun With eyelids unquivering. Nay, they do not know Him, and they would not be like Him.
They would be unknown, walking in the procession of the unknown. They would bear sorrow, their sorrow, And they would not find comfort in your joy. Their aching heart seeks not consolation in your words and the song thereof. And their pain, silent and unshapen, Makes them creatures lonely and unvisited. Though hemmed about by kin and kind, They live in fear, uncomraded; Yet they would not be alone. They would bend eastward when the west wind blows.
They call you king, And they would be in your court. They pronounce you the Messiah, And they would themselves be anointed with the holy oil. Yea, they would live upon your life.
Master, Master Singer, Your tears were like the showers of May, And your laughter like the waves of the white sea. When you spoke, your words were the far-off whisper of their lips when those lips should be kindled