  COME down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself—come down! Thou wilt be free as wind. None meeting thee will know How thou wert hanging stark, my soul, outside the town. Thou wilt fare to and fro; Thy feet in grass will smell of faithful thyme; thy head ... Think of the thorns, my soul—how thou wilt cast them off, With shudder at the bleeding clench they hold! But on their wounds thou wilt a balsam spread, And over that a verdurous circle rolled With gathered violets, sweet bright violets, sweet As incense of the thyme on thy free feet; A wreath thou wilt not give away, nor wilt thou doff. Come down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself; yea, move As scudding swans pass lithely on a seaward stream! Thou wilt have everything thou wert made great to love; Thou wilt have ease for every dream; No nails with fang will hold thy purpose to one aim; Against thy shoulders pressed and burning them with hate, Yea, burning with intolerable flame. O lips, such noxious vinegar have drunk, There are through valley-woods and mountain-glades Rivers where thirst in naked prowess wades; And there are wells in solitude whose chill no hour abates! Come down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself! A sign Thou wilt become to many, as a shooting star. They will believe thou art Æthereal, divine, When thou art where they are; They will believe in thee and give thee feasts and praise. They will believe thy power when thou hast loosed thy nails; For power to them is fetterless and grand: For destiny to them, along their ways, Is one whose Earthly Kingdom never fails. Thou wilt be as a prophet or a king In thy tremendous term of flourishing— And thy hot royalty with acclamations fanned. Come down from the Cross, my soul, and save thyself!... Beware! Wilt thou not hang as He while mockers laugh and stare? Wilt thou not die His death? Wilt thou not stay as He with nails and thorns and thirst? Wilt thou not choose to conquer faith in His lone style? Wilt thou not be with Him and hold thee still? Voices have cried to Him, Come down! Accursed And vain those voices, striving to beguile! How heedless, solemn-gray in powerful mass, Christ droops among the echoes as they pass! O soul, remain with Him, with Him thy doom fulfil! |
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