High stretched upon the swinging yard, I gather in the sheet; But it is hard And stiff, and one cries haste. Then He that is most dear in my regard Of all the crew gives aidance meet; But from His hands, and from His feet, A glory spreads wherewith the night is starred: Moreover of a cup most bitter-sweet With fragrance as of nard, And myrrh, and cassia spiced, He proffers me to taste. Then I to Him:â€”â€˜Art Thou the Christ?â€™ He saithâ€”â€˜Thou sayâ€™st.â€™
Like to an ox That staggers â€™neath the mortal blow, She grinds upon the rocks:â€” Then straight and low Leaps forth the levelled line, and in our quarter locks The cradleâ€™s rigged; with swerving of the blast We go, Our Captain lastâ€” Demands â€˜Who fired that shot?â€™ Each silent standsâ€” Ah, sweet perplexity! This too was He.
I have an arbour wherein came a toad Most hideous to seeâ€” Immediate, seizing staff or goad, I smote it cruelly. Then all the place with subtle radiance glowedâ€” I looked, and it was He!