  IN all things Thou art like us and content, Bowing, receiv’st Thy sacrament. What is it?—that Thou kneelest meek? And what the gift that Thou dost seek Beside us at Thy altars? Hour by hour, What is it lays up in Thee holy power? Christ, if Thou comest suppliant It is to Death, the Celebrant! Death gives the wafer of his dust; The ashes of his harvest thrust Upon Thy tongue Thou tastest, then Dost swallow for the sake of men. O Brightness of the Heavens, to save Thy creatures Thou dost eat the grave! Our Sacrament—oh, generous!—of wheat, The dust that out of corn we eat, Whiteness of Life’s fair grain! O Christ, No grinding of the cornfield had sufficed To lay upon our tongues Thy holy Bread, Unless Thou hadst Thyself so harshly fed With grindings of the bone of death, the grit That once was beauty and the form of it; Once welcome, now so sharp to taste; Once featured, now the dregs of waste; Of hope once filled, now lacking aught Of treasure to be sold or bought Dost taste of in its fated clay.... O soul, take thought! It is thy God That to His lips presses this choking sod! |
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