XVIII.

Thou art before me, and I see no more

Pilate or soldiers, but the purple flung

Around the naked form the scourge had wrung,

To naked Truth thus witnessing, before

The False and trembling True. As on the shore

Of infinite Love and Truth, I kneel among

Thy footprints on that pavement; and my tongue

Would, but for reverence, cry: “If Thou set'st store

By feeble homage, Witness to the Truth,

Thou art the King, crowned by thy witnessing!”

I die in soul, and fall down worshipping.

Art glories vanish, vapours of the morn.

Never but Thee was there a man in sooth,

Never a true crown but thy crown of thorn.