Before the bishop – how they bear
The lighted tapers, flaming fair,
Blown back by the sweet wavering air.
The bishop, knocking at the door,
The deacon answering from within,
"Lift up your heads, ye gates, be sure
The King of Glory shall come in" —
The bishop passed in with the choir.
Thank God for this – our soul's desire,
Our altar, meet for heaven's fire!
The bishop, kneeling in his place
Where our bright windows made day dim,
With all heaven's glory in his face,
Began the consecration hymn:
"Veni," he sang, in clear strong tone.
Then – on the instant – song was done,
Its very echo scattered – gone!
For, as the bishop's voice rang clear,
Another voice rang clearer still —
A voice wherein the soul could hear
The discord of unmeasured ill —
And sudden breathless silence fell
On all the church. And I wot well
There are such silences in hell.
Taper and torch died down – went out —
And all our church grew dark and cold,
And deathly odours crept about,
And chill, as of the churchyard mould;
And every flower drooped its head,
And all the rose's leaves were shed,
And all the lilies dropped down dead.
There, in the bishop's chair, we saw —
How can I tell you? Memories shrink
To mix anew the cup of awe
We shuddering mortals had to drink.
What was it? There! The shape that stood
Before the altar and the rood —
It was not human flesh and blood!
A light more bright than any sun,
A shade more dark than any night,
A shape that human shape was none,
A cloud, a sense of wingëd might,
And, like an infernal trumpet sound,
Rang through the church's hush profound
A voice. We listened horror-bound.
"Venio! Cease, cease to consecrate!
Love built the church, but it is mine!
'Tis built of stone hewn out by hate,
Cemented by man's blood divine.
Whence came the gold that paid for this?
From pillage of the poor, I wis —
That gold was mine, and mine this is!
"Your King has cursed the usurer's gold,
He gives it to me for my fee!
Your church is builded, but behold
Your church is fair for me – for me!
Who robs the poor to me is given;
Impenitent and unforgiven,
His church is built for hell, not heaven!"
Then, as we gazed, the face grew clear,
And all men stood as turned to stone;
Each man beheld through dews of fear
A face – his own – yet not his own;
His own face, darkened, lost, debased,
With hell's own signet stamped and traced,
And all the God in it effaced.
A crash like thunder shook the walls,
A flame like lightning shot them through:
"Fly, fly before the judgment falls,
And all the stones be fallen on you!"
And as we fled we saw bright gleams
Of fire leap out 'mid joists and beams.
Our church! Oh, love – oh, hopes – oh, dreams!
We stood without – a pallid throng —
And as the flame leaped high and higher,
Shrill winds we heard that rushed along
And fanned the transports of the fire.
The sky grew black; against the sky
The blue and scarlet flames leaped high,
And cries as of lost souls wailed by.
The church in glowing vesture stood,
The lead ran down as it were wax,
The great stones cracked and burned like wood,
The wood caught fire and flamed like flax:
A horrid chequered light and shade,
By smoke and flame alternate made,
Upon men's upturned faces played.
Down crashed the walls. Our lovely spire —
A blackened ruin – fell and lay.
The very earth about caught fire,
And flame-tongues licked along the clay.
The fire did neither stay nor spare
Till the foundations were laid bare
To the hot, sickened, smoke-filled air.
There in the sight of men it lay,
Our church that we had made so fair!
A heap of ashes white and gray,
With sparks still gleaming here and there.
The sun came out again, and shone
On all our loving work undone —
Our church destroyed, our labour gone!
Gone? Is it gone? God knows it, no!
The hands that builded built aright:
The men who loved and laboured so,
Their church is built in heaven's height!
In every stone a glittering gem,
Gold in the gold Jerusalem —
The church their love built waits for them.
LOVE IN JUNE
Through the glowing meadows aflame
With buttercup gold I came
To the green, still heart of the wood.
A wood-pigeon cooed and cooed,
The hazel-stems grew close,
Like leaves round the heart of a rose,
Round the still, green nest that I chose.
Then I gathered the bracken that grew
In a fairy forest all round,
And I laid it in heaps on the ground
With grass and blossoms and leaves.
I gathered the summer in sheaves,
And