THE SAVIOUR OF SOCIETY

O son of man, but of what man who knows?

That broughtest healing on thy leathern wings

To priests, and under them didst gather kings,

And madest friends to thee of all man's foes;

Before thine incarnation, the tale goes,

Thy virgin mother, pure of sensual stings,

Communed by night with angels of chaste things,

And, full of grace, untimely felt the throes

Of motherhood upon her, and believed

The obscure annunciation made when late

A raven-feathered raven-throated dove

Croaked salutation to the mother of love

Whose misconception was immaculate,

And when her time was come she misconceived.

Thine incarnation was upon this wise,

Saviour; and out of east and west were led

To thy foul cradle by thy planet red

Shepherds of souls that feed their sheep with lies

Till the utter soul die as the body dies,

And the wise men that ask but to be fed

Though the hot shambles be their board and bed

And sleep on any dunghill shut their eyes,

So they lie warm and fatten in the mire:

And the high priest enthroned yet in thy name,

Judas, baptised thee with men's blood for hire;

And now thou hangest nailed to thine own shame

In sight of all time, but while heaven has flame

Shalt find no resurrection from hell-fire.