of the whole.
So one would sing of death, one of despair,
And some, knowing that God was more than man,
Knowing that the Eternal Power behind
Our universe was more than man, would shrink
From crowning Him with human attributes,
Though these remained the highest that we knew;
And therefore, falling back on lower signs,
Bereft of love, thought, personality,
They made Him less than man; made Him a blind
Unweeting force, less than the best in man,
Less than the best that He Himself had made.

Yet, though from earth we could no longer hear
As from a central throne, the harmonies
Of the revolving whole; yet though from earth,
And from earth's Calvary, the central scene
Withdrew to dreadful depths beyond our ken;
Withdrew to some deep Calvary at the heart
Of all creation; yet, O yet, we heard,
Echoes that murmured from Eternity,
_I am the Way, the Truth, the Life, the Light._
And still the eternal passion undiscerned
Moved like a purple shadow through our world,
While we, in intellectual chaos, raised
The ancient cry, _Not this man, but Barabbas._
Then Might grew Right once more, for who could hold
The Right, when the rebellious hearts of men
Finding the Law too hard in life, thought, art,
Proclaimed that Right itself was born of chance,
Born out of nothingness and doomed, at last,
To nothingness; while all that men have held
Better than dust--love, honour, justice, truth--
Was less than dust, for the blind dust endures?
But love, they said, and the proud soul of man,
Die with the breath, before the flesh decays.
And still, amidst the chaos, Love was born,
Suffered and died; and in a myriad forms
A myriad parables of the Eternal Christ
Unfolded their deep message to mankind.
So, on this last wild winter of his birth,
Though cannon rocked his cradle, heaven might hear,
Once more, the Mother and her infant Child.

_Will the Five Clock-Towers chime tonight?_
--Child, the red earth would shake with scorn.--
_But will the Emperors laugh outright
If Roland rings that Christ is born?_

No belfries pealed for that pure birth.
There were no high-stalled choirs to sing.
The blood of children smoked on earth;
For Herod, in those days, was king.--

_O, then the Mother and her Son
Were refugees that Christmas, too?_--
Through all the ages, little one,
That strange old story still