New Zealand Verse/Prelude to "The Nazarene"
CLXIX.
Prelude to “The Nazarene.”
I will not have his human story dimmed
And shadowed over by his divinity.
He was of us, all human, brother, friend;
He strove, was vanquished, strove and won—a Man.
And shadowed over by his divinity.
He was of us, all human, brother, friend;
He strove, was vanquished, strove and won—a Man.
About his path no cloud of angels hung,
Legions and legions watching him; no hand
Lifted him up above his sufferings.
He walked not on the clouds, but here with us,
Living obscurely on this common earth
His common life. The sweat upon his brow
Was bitter human sweat; the heart we pierced,
A heart that long had learnt the lonely way
That breaking hearts must go.
And at the end
This is his chiefest glory—that he rose
No higher than the cross we built for him!
Legions and legions watching him; no hand
Lifted him up above his sufferings.
He walked not on the clouds, but here with us,
Living obscurely on this common earth
His common life. The sweat upon his brow
Was bitter human sweat; the heart we pierced,
A heart that long had learnt the lonely way
That breaking hearts must go.
And at the end
This is his chiefest glory—that he rose
No higher than the cross we built for him!
O that the world might know him as he was—
The kindly teacher, the sweet, patient man,
One of our human family, Mary’s son!
The kindly teacher, the sweet, patient man,
One of our human family, Mary’s son!
I cannot know the Christ; the time is late,
And he that walked among us, sore at heart,
Has faded from us, merged into a God.
And he that walked among us, sore at heart,
Has faded from us, merged into a God.
The sweet familiar Nazarene is lost
Beneath the waving of fine priestly hands;
His tender, troubled face looks dimly out
Across the incense-smoke; I cannot hear
His quiet tones beneath the breathless throb
Of vast, sonorous organs; and the bruised
And wounded body we would weep upon
Is covered from our pitying gaze with stiff
And costly vestments; he is buried deep
In piles of carven stone, and lies forgotten
Beneath the triumph of cloud-questing spires.
Beneath the waving of fine priestly hands;
His tender, troubled face looks dimly out
Across the incense-smoke; I cannot hear
His quiet tones beneath the breathless throb
Of vast, sonorous organs; and the bruised
And wounded body we would weep upon
Is covered from our pitying gaze with stiff
And costly vestments; he is buried deep
In piles of carven stone, and lies forgotten
Beneath the triumph of cloud-questing spires.
His simple kindliness and frequent smile —
The sweet humanity that was the Christ—
Is frightened by the stillness and the awe,
And drowned in the vast hush of solemn aisles.
The light strays feebly through the rich-hued panes;
I cannot recognize the Man who loved
The sun and all the simple sunny things.
I put my hands out blindly for a breast
Of close, familiar comfort—and I feel
The cold, smooth pavement and the carven stone!
The sweet humanity that was the Christ—
Is frightened by the stillness and the awe,
And drowned in the vast hush of solemn aisles.
The light strays feebly through the rich-hued panes;
I cannot recognize the Man who loved
The sun and all the simple sunny things.
I put my hands out blindly for a breast
Of close, familiar comfort—and I feel
The cold, smooth pavement and the carven stone!
And when among the long-dead centuries
I seek the Man, I cannot see him clear;
For he is hidden by a cloud of wings,
Or blinds me, radiant, an effulgent God!
I seek the Man, I cannot see him clear;
For he is hidden by a cloud of wings,
Or blinds me, radiant, an effulgent God!
His body was not rapt in splendour up,
But somewhere with us lies, his ashes sealed
In some long-fallen tomb: not reft away,
Somewhere they build up soil and seed and soul.
Or somewhere they are blown about the world,
Part of the green of grass, the blue of sky,
Helping the herb—as all of us must help—
Woven and mixed within all growing things.
But somewhere with us lies, his ashes sealed
In some long-fallen tomb: not reft away,
Somewhere they build up soil and seed and soul.
Or somewhere they are blown about the world,
Part of the green of grass, the blue of sky,
Helping the herb—as all of us must help—
Woven and mixed within all growing things.
O that the world might know him as he was—
One of our human family, Mary’s son!
One of our human family, Mary’s son!