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Since Golgotha the learned doctors prate Of peace and easeful immortality, As if strange fruit of that accursed tree Had bloomed and withered but to dissipate Old fears, and that a glutton world might sate Eternal longings with eternity— A world content the cross of Christ should be Its suffering and death impersonate.

Ah, Lord, wouldst Thou we let Thy blood redeem, Thy torture comfort, and Thy sorrow save? Or, restless, labor with the soul God gave, Aspire and suffer, follow beauty's gleam, Endure the barren agony of dream, And win brief life—not freedom from the grave?