FROM His eternal seat Christ comes down to this earth, where, ages ago, in the bitter cup of death He poured his deathless life for those who came to the call and those who remained away.
He looks about Him, and sees the weapons of evil that wounded His own age.
The arrogant spikes and spears, the slim, sly knives, the scimitar in diplomatic sheath, crooked and cruel, are hissing and raining sparks as they are sharpened on monster wheels.
But the most fearful of them all, at the hands of the slaughterers, are those on which has been engraved His own name, that are fashioned from the texts of His own words fused in the fire of hatred and hammered by hypocritical greed.
He presses His hand upon His heart; He feels that the age-long moment of His death has not yet ended, that new nails, turned out in countless numbers by those who are learned in cunning craftsmanship, pierce Him in every joint
They had hurt Him once, standing at the shadow of their temple; they are born anew in crowds.
From before their sacred altar they shout to the soldiers, 'Strike!'
And the Son of Man in agony cries, 'My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?'

As THE TREE its leaves, I shed my words on the earth,
let my thoughts unuttered flower in thy silencer

THOU ART A glimmer of gold from the dawn on my life's shore,
a dew-drop on the first white flower of autumn.
Thou art a rainbow from the distant sky
bending o'er the dust,
a dream of the crescent moon
touched with a white cloud,
thou art a secret of paradise
revealed by chance to the earth.
Thou art my poet's vision,
appearing from the days
of my forgotten birth,
thou art the word that is never for utterance,
a freedom that comes in the form of a bondage,
for thou openest the door for me
to the beauty of a living light.