Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/97

Rh

Wreathe our God with thorns That crown that blossom'd roses on his hair, The cup of torment turned to honey wine. But leave contending of an alien God, And self-tormenting, sad, cadaverous creed, Since noontide bids us greet the Father of Light, With murmured litany and chanted hymn.

(All enter the Temple.)

THE HYMN.

O sure-aim'd stringer of the golden bow! Laying the marsh-bred mist-born Python low. Archer!

O Priest, interpreting by secret ways The ringing tripod's sense, and shaken bays. Prophet!