And Simon Peter the impetuous, who denied you that he might live longer for you, He too sits by our fire. He may deny you again ere the dawn of another day, Yet he would be crucified for your purpose, and deem himself unworthy of the honour. And Caiaphas and Annas still live their day, And judge the guilty and the innocent. They sleep upon their feathered bed Whilst he whom they have judged is whipped with the rods.
And the woman who was taken in adultery,
She too walks the streets of our cities, And hungers for bread not yet baked, And she is alone in an 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.