On the Golgotha of mine inmost being

There stands a crucifix,

And in the deepest recess of my being

In perpetuity Good Friday reigns.

And always in the stillness of the night,

The endless night within mine inmost being,

I hear the moaning and the supplications

Of him that’s crucified within my being.

I see the wounds of side and hands and feet,

The wounds that glow like rubies in the night,

That cast a lurid glare upon the night,

Those mystic wounds in number like the senses.

Four horrid wounds upon the hands and feet,

One on the side, thus making five in all,

Just as the senses, making five in all.

And in the endless night within my being

I hear the moaning and the supplications.

“Oh, tear me from my cross,” entreats the Christ,

“For I am Joy, thy God, the son of Life.

Oh, tear me from my cross,” entreats the Christ.

That cursed instrument of agony,

Is conscience; human conscience is the cross—

The cross whereon our Joy is crucified.

My Lord, I will redeem thee from thy cross,

And give thee burial in mine aching heart,

Whence thou shalt rise and henceforth ever reign

Over the Kingdom of the blessed flesh.