Yet they would be crucified again and yet again, That your God may be their God, And your Father their Father.
Master, Master Lover,
The Princess awaits your coming in her fragrant chamber, And the married unmarried woman in her cage; The harlot who seeks bread in the streets of her shame, And the nun in her cloister who has no husband; The childless woman too at her window, Where frost designs the forest on the pane, She finds you in that symmetry, And she would mother you, and be comforted.
Master, Master Poet, Master of our silent desires,
The heart of the world quivers with the throbbing of your heart, But it burns not with your song.
The world sits listening to your voice in tranquil delight, But it rises not from its seat To scale the ridges of your hills.
Man would dream your dream, but he would not wake to your dawn Which is his greater dream.
He would see with your vision, But he would not drag his heavy feet to your throne;
Yet many have been enthroned inn your name And mitred with your power, And have turned your golden visit Into crowns for their head and sceptres for their hand.
Master, Master of Light, Whose eye dwells in the seeking fingers of the blind, You are still despised and mocked, A man too weak and infirm to be God, A God too much man to call forth adoration. Their mass and their hymn, Their sacrament and their rosary, are for their imprisoned self. You are their yet distant self, their far-off cry, and