Seven times was I born and seven times have I died, And now I live again, and I behold you, The fighter among fighters, The poet of poets, King above all kings, A man half-naked with your road-fellows.
Every day the bishop bends down his head When he pronounces your name; And every day the beggars say: “For Jesus’ sake Give us a penny to buy bread.”
We call upon each other, But in truth we call upon you, Like the flood tide in the spring of our want and desire, And when our autumn comes, like the ebb tide.
High or low, your name is upon our lips, The Master of infinite compassion.
Master, Master of our lonely hours, Here and there, betwixt the cradle and the coffin, I meet your silent brothers, The free men, unshackled, Sons of your mother earth and space. They are like the birds of the sky, And like the lilies of the field. They live your life and think your thoughts, And they echo your song. But they are empty-handed, And they are not crucified with the great crucifixion, And therein is their pain. The world crucifies them every day, But only in little ways. The sky is not shaken, And the earth travails not with her dead. They are crucified and there is none to witness their agony. They turn their face to right and left And find not one to promise them a station in his kingdom.