THE WOOD-CUTTER

We came behind him by the wall,

My brethren drew their brands,

And they had strength to strike him down —

And I to bind his hands.

Only once, to a lantern gleam,

He turned his face from the wall,

And it was as the accusing angel's face

On the day when the stars shall fall.

I grasped the axe with shaking hands,

I stared at the grass I trod;

For I feared to see the whole bare heavens

Filled with the face of God.

I struck: the serpentine slow blood

In four arms soaked the moss —

Before me, by the living Christ,

The blood ran in a cross.

Therefore I toil in forests here

And pile the wood in stacks,

And take no fee from the shivering folk

Till I have cleansed the axe.

But for a curse God cleared my sight,

And where each tree doth grow

I see a life with awful eyes,

And I must lay it low.