In The Church Of St. John Lateran Rome

Still, still they crucify thee, O great Christ. They took thee from thy cross on Calvary, And nailed thee in a splendid place unpriced Of malachite and gold and porphyry. They counted all the wounds thy body bore, They measured all the hours of misery, On spear and reed and sponge they set great store: Still, still they crucify thee, gentle Christ.

They used thy name, because thou wast so meek, To be the watchword of all godless pride; Because thou wast so gracious to the weak, They held thy flaming cross up far and wide, A curse and terror in the common street To poor and ignorant and world-untried, And then they came and crouched and kissed thy feet, With folded hands and lips slavish and sleek.

Still, still they crucify thee, who didst say Suffer the little ones to come to me, Whose heart with love beguiled the beaten way, And made all men behold thee joyfully; For now they wave away the vulgar crowd, No simple child of man may come nigh thee: With obscure rites and incantations loud They crucify thy love fresh every day.

Once, where the churches offer stones for bread, And in their Holy Place call darkness light, Thy sun-like truth-revealing presence shed Shame on each false and Pharisaic rite: Till, as thy lustre more intensely shone, They took thee from thy chosen lowly site, And set thee for their own especial sun, And called thee by the name of Church’s Head.

And now, when in an aisle loud trumpets bray, And facing thee the priests go to and fro, And, distanced off, the kneeling people pray And breathe thy name in trembling accents low: High o’er the incense and the altar cloud, Afar, and folded in thine own great woe, Alone, thy head in deep dejection bowed, Great Christ, they crucify thee every day.

Thy face is turned aside from all that scene, Thine eyes are weary of their age-long gaze, Thy frame is worn, thy shrunken limbs grow lean, Thou seem’st to tremble at the song of praise; For here, and in thy name, the evil word, The ban, the curse, and damning pious phrase, Century after century were heard, Christ, as if thou their Counsellor hadst been.

So long? These twice ten hundred years, O Christ? Hath no one yet come near to lift thee down? Hath no one yet thy holy spirit priced Above the three nails and the thorny crown? Thy seamless robe the Roman soldiers took, But these have woven thee another gown Of all thy bitter shame and sharp rebuke Wherein to crucify thee still, great Christ.

Slowly the days run on, the time is long, The kneeling generations come and go, Thy word is to them as an empty gong, They look upon thee, but they do not know. Thine arms, wide-spread for all the world’s embrace, Are empty evermore of friend or foe, Still, still set stiff and rigid in their place, And straightened back from love with rivets strong.

Ah, surely in the seeming endless years Some momentary glance hath gladdened thee, Some smile of recognition reached through tears Hath shed light on thy later Calvary. Yet is thy love more like a thing untold, To stay and suffer still so patiently, By suffering to overcome the cold Heart of estrangement of thy loved compeers.

And now, the end, what is it? For each day The magic ceremonious circle, drawn Betwixt thee and the people, doth betray Less room for love and more for serge and lawn; The world grows weary seeking thee in vain, And leaves thee to the priests, who self-withdrawn In secret pride find popular disdain And pitiful desertion and dismay.

The Papal pride has triumphed: it has set Itself for thee. The world has turned away. The Papal pride has fallen. Wilt thou yet Remain to lead us in this later day? Or will thy name, as something that is not, Pass from the ears of men unlearned to pray, Thy centuries of suffering forgot, Thy love to men for evermore unmet?

Ah! greater is thy love than this, great Christ. Thou givest, but thou askest not again: And though our wayward worship be enticed To other shrines, thy spirit shall remain, Unknown, to breathe upon us purer life, Refine us with the flame of earthly pain, Until, our hearts with thine no more at strife, We learn how not to crucify thee, Christ.

ROME, 1873.