Читать книгу The Rosary of Pan - Alexander Maitland Stephen - Страница 7
The Face
ОглавлениеI REFT my soul from out the strife of things.
The self-forged fetters broken then set free
That which the ages fashioned, in the dark,
And lo, a tired child’s face looked forth at me.
Curls tangled in a ghostly crown of thorns,
Lips that knew not of laughter but of lies;
’Neath lashes dim with unshed tears, there slept
The shadow of Golgotha in his eyes.
This man-made image of the Son in Heaven
Was Death incarnate, not the radiant Life
That pulses in the stars thro’ endless aeons,
Rising triumphant over pain and strife.
Small wonder that with pangs of hell re-born,
Earth pays the debt and with its withering breath
Red war doth cleanse the nations, heavy laden,
With Calvary’s cross—the harbinger of Death.
Memories dim of times remote and golden
Gleaming like fire thro’ mists that veil the day,
Gods manifold there are and not forgotten.
The flowerage of a fairer time were they.
To break the bondage barren faiths have builded,
To show the splendour of the larger plan,
These greater Gods shall bring the old, new message—
One name for Son of God and child of Man.
