I.

In vain thine altars do they heap With blooms of violated May Who fail the words of Christ to keep; Thy Son who love not, nor obey.

Their songs are as a serpent's hiss; Their praise a poniard's poisoned edge; Their offering taints, like Judas' kiss, Thy shrine; their vows are sacrilege.

Sadly from such thy countenance turns: Thou canst not stretch thy Babe to such (Albeit for all thy pity yearns) As greet Him with a leper's touch.

Who loveth thee must love thy Son. Weak Love grows strong thy smile beneath: But nothing comes from nothing; none Can reap Love's harvest out of Death.