Page:A channel passage and other poems (IA channelpassageot00swinrich).pdf/64

 What word, what praise, what passion of hopeless prayer, May now rise up to thee, loud as in years that were, From years that gaze on the works of thy servants wrought While strength was in them to satiate the lust of thought That craved in thy name for blood as the quest it sought? From the dark high places of Rome Far over the westward foam God's heaven and the sun saw swell The fires of the high priest's hell, And shrank as they curled and clomb And revelled and ravaged and fell.

Yet was not the work of thy word all withered with wasting flame By the sons of the priests that had slain thee, whose evil was wrought in thy name.