Sacrament

Before the Altar of the world in flower, Upon whose steps thy creatures kneel in line, We do beseech Thee in this wild Spring hour, Grant us, O Lord, thy wine. But not this wine. Helpless, we, praying by Thy shimmering seas, Beside Thy fields, whence all the world is fed, Thy little children clinging about Thy knees, Cry: 'Grant us, Lord, Thy bread!' But not this bread. This wine of awful sacrifice outpoured; This bread of life -- of human lives. The Press Is overflowing, the Wine-Press of the Lord! . . Yet doth he tread the foamings no less. These stricken lands! The green time of the year Has found them wasted by a purple flood, Sodden and wasted everywhere, everywhere; -- Not all our tears may cleanse them from that blood.