Outcast

I did not fear, But crept close up to Christ and said, "Is He not here?"

They drew me back-- The seraphs who had never bled Of weary lack--

But still I cried, With torn robe, clutching at His feet, "Dear Christ! He died

So long ago! Is He not here? Three days, unfleet As mortal flow

Of time I've sought-- Till Heaven's amaranthine ways Seem as sere nought!"

A grieving stole Up from His heart and waned the gaze Of His clear soul

Into my eyes. "He is not here," troubled He sighed. "For none who dies

Beliefless may Bend lips to this sin-healing Tide, And live alway."

Then darkness rose Within me, and drear bitterness. Out of its throes

I moaned, at last, "Let me go hence! Take off the dress, The charms Thou hast

Around me strown! Beliefless too am I without His love--and lone!"

Unto the Gate They led me, tho' with pitying doubt. I did not wait

But stepped across Its portal, turned not once to heed Or know my loss.

Then my dream broke, And with it every loveless creed-- Beneath love's stroke.