The church flings forth a battled shade Over the moon-blanched sward; The church; my gift; whereto I paid My all in hand and hoard:
Lavished my gains With stintless pains To glorify the Lord. I squared the broad foundations in
Of ashlared masonry; I moulded mullions thick and thin, Hewed fillet and ogee; I circleted
Each sculptured head With nimb and canopy. I called in many a craftsmaster To fix emblazoned glass,
To figure Cross and Sepulchre On dossal, boss, and brass. My gold all spent, My jewels went
To gem the cups of Mass. I borrowed deep to carve the screen And raise the ivoried Rood; I parted with my small demesne
To make my owings good. Heir-looms unpriced I sacrificed, Until debt-free I stood.
So closed the task. “Deathless the Creed Here substanced!” said my soul: “I heard me bidden to this deed, And straight obeyed the call.
Illume this fane, That not in vain I build it, Lord of all!” But, as it chanced me, then and there
Did dire misfortunes burst; My home went waste for lack of care, My sons rebelled and curst; Till I confessed
That aims the best Were looking like the worst. Enkindled by my votive work No burning faith I find;
The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk, And give my toil no mind; From nod and wink I read they think
That I am fool and blind. My gift to God seems futile, quite; The world moves as erstwhile; And powerful wrong on feeble right
Tramples in olden style. My faith burns down, I see no crown; But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile.
So now, the remedy? Yea, this: I gently swing the door Here, of my fane — no soul to wis - And cross the patterned floor
To the rood-screen That stands between The nave and inner chore. The rich red windows dim the moon,
But little light need I; I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn From woods of rarest dye; Then from below
My garment, so, I draw this cord, and tie One end thereof around the beam Midway‘ twixt Cross and truss:
I noose the nethermost extreme, And in ten seconds thus I journey hence - To that land whence
No rumour reaches us. Well: Here at morn they'll light on one Dangling in mockery Of what he spent his substance on
Blindly and uselessly!... “He might,” they'll say, “Have built, some way. A cheaper gallows-tree!”
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