THE OUTCAST

I did not fear,

But crept close up to Christ and said,

“Is he not here?”

They drew me back —

The seraphs who had never bled

Of weary lack —

But still I cried,

With torn robe, clutching at His feet,

“Dear Christ! He died

“So long ago!

Is he not here? Three days, unfleet

As mortal flow

“Of time I've sought —

Till Heaven's amaranthine ways

Seem as sere nought!”

A grieving stole

Up from His heart and waned the gaze

Of His clear soul

Into my eyes.

“He is not here,” troubled He sighed.

“For none who dies

“Beliefless may

Bend lips to this sin-healing Tide,

And live alway.”

Then darkness rose

Within me, and drear bitterness.

Out of its throes

I moaned, at last,

“Let me go hence! Take off the dress,

The charms Thou hast

“Around me strown!

Beliefless too am I without

His love — and lone!”

Unto the Gate

They led me, tho’ with pitying doubt.

I did not wait

But stepped across

Its portal, turned not once to heed

Or know my loss.

Then my dream broke,

And with it every loveless creed —

Beneath love's stroke.