Unredeemed

I saw the Christ down from His cross,     A tragic man lean-limbed and tall,     But weighed with suffering and loss.     His back was to a broken wall,     And out upon the tameless world     Was fixed His gaze His piercing eye     Beheld the towns to ruin hurled,     And saw the storm of death pass by.     Two thousand years it was since first     He offered to the race of men     His sovran boon, As one accurst     They nailed Him to the jibbet then,     And while they mocked Him for their mirth     He smiled, and from the hill of pain     To all the hating tribes of earth     Held forth His wondrous gift again.     To-day the thorns were on His brow,     His grief was deeper than before.     From ravaged field and city now     Arose the screams and reek of war.     The black smoke parted. Through the rift     God's sun fell on the b1oody lands.     Christ wept, for still His priceless gift     He held within His wounded hands.     The Living Picture     He rode along one splendid noon,     When all the hills were lit with Spring,     And through the bushland throbbed a croon     Of every living, hopeful thing.     Between his teeth a rose he bore     As white as milk, and passing there     He tossed it with a laugh. I wore     It as it fell among my hair.     No day a-drip with golden rain,     No heat with drench of wattle scent     Can touch the heart of me again     But with that young, sweet wonder blent.     We wed upon a gusty day,     When baffled fury whipped the sea;     And now I love the swift, wet play     Of wind and rain besetting me.     I took white roses in my hand,     A white rose on my forehead shone,     For we had come to understand     White roses bloomed for us alone.     When scarce a year had gone he sped     To fight the wars. With eyes grown grim     He kissed my lips, and whispering said:     The world we must keep sweet for him!     He wrote of war, the soldier's life.     'Tis hard, my dearest, but be brave.     I did not make my love my wife     To be the mother of a slave!     My babe was born a boy. He had     His father's eyes, his smile, his hair,     And, oh, my soul was brimming glad     It seemed his father's self was there!     But now came one who bade me still     In holy Heaven put my trust.     They'd laid my love beneath the hill,     And sealed his eyes with timeless dust.     Against my breast the babe I drew,     With strength from him to stay my fears.     I fought my fight the long days through;     He laughed and dabbled in my tears.     From my poor heart, at which it fed     With tiger teeth, I thrust despair,     And faced a world with shadow spread     And only echoes in the air.     The winter waned. One eve I went,     Led by a kindly hand to see     In moving scenes the churches rent,     The tumbled hill, the blasted lee.     Of soldiers resting by the road,     Who smoked and drowsed, a muddy rout,     One sprang alert, and forward strode,     With eager eyes to seek us out.     His fingers held a rose. He threw     The flower, and waved his cap. In me     A frenzy of assurance grew,     For, O dear God, 'twas he! 'twas he!     I called aloud. Aloft my child     I held, and nearer yet he came;     And when he understood and smiled,     My baby lisped his father's name.     They say I fell like something dead,     But when I woke to morning's glow     My boy sat by me on the bed,     And in his hand a rose of snow!