Page:Songs before sunrise (IA beforesunrisongs00swinrich).pdf/209

 In the great torment that bends down His bruised head with the bloomless crown, White as the unfruitful thorn-flower, A God beheld in dreams that were Beheld of her.

In vain on all these sins and years Falls the sad blood, fall the slow tears; In vain poured forth as watersprings, Priests, on your altars, and ye, kings, About your seats of sanguine gold; Still your God, spat upon and sold, Bleeds at your hands; but now is gone All his flock from him saving one; Judas alone.

Surely your race it was that he, O men signed backward with his name, Beholding in Gethsemane Bled the red bitter sweat of shame, Knowing how the word of Christian should Mean to men evil and not good, Seem to men shameful for your sake, Whose lips, for all the prayers they make, Man's blood must slake.