  The bearded rabbi, the meek friar, Linked by their ankles in one cell, Through joint distress of dungeon mire Learned each to love his neighbour well. When four years passed and five and six, When seven years brought them no release, The Jew embraced the crucifix, The friar assumed phylacteries. Then every Sunday, keeping score, And every Sabbath in this hymn They reconciled an age-long war Between the platter’s bowl and rim. Together. Man-like he lived, but God-like died, All hatred from His thought removed, Imperfect until crucified, In crucifixion well-beloved. The Friar. If they did wrong, He too did wrong, (For Love admits no contraries) In blind religion rooted strong Both Jesus and the Pharisees. “Love all men as thyself,” said He. Said they, “Be just with man or dog,” “But only loathe a Pharisee,” “But crucify this demagogue. He died forgiving on the Tree To make amends for earlier spite, They raised him up their God to be, And black with black accomplished white. The Rabbi. When He again descends on man As chief of Scribes and Pharisees, With loathing for the Publican, The maimed and halt His enemies, And when a not less formal fate Than Pilate’s justice and the Rood, His righteous angers expiate To make men think Him wholly good, Then He again will have done wrong, If God be Love for every man, For lewd and lettered, weak and strong, For Pharisee or Publican, Together. But like a God He will have died, All hatred from His thought removed, Imperfect until crucified, In crucifixion well-beloved. |
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