Across the Eastern sky has glowed The flicker of a blood-red dawn; Once more the clarion cock has crowed, Once more the sword of Christ is drawn. A million burning roof-trees light The world-wide path of Israel’s flight. Where is the Hebrew’s fatherland? The folk of Christ is sore bestead; The Son of Man is bruised and banned, Nor finds whereon to lay his head. His cup is gall, his meat is tears, His passion lasts a thousand years. Each crime that wakes in man the beast, Is visited upon his kind. The lust of mobs, the greed of priest, The tyranny of kings, combined To root his seed from earth again, His record is one cry of pain. When the long roll of Christian guilt Against his sires and kin is known, The flood of tears, the life-blood spilt, The agony of ages shown, What oceans can the stain remove From Christian law and Christian love? Nay, close the book; not now, not here, The hideous tale of sin narrate; Reëchoing in the martyr’s ear, Even he might nurse revengeful hate, Even he might turn in wrath sublime, With blood for blood and crime for crime. Coward? Not he, who faces death, Who singly against worlds has fought, For what? A name he may not breathe, For liberty of prayer and thought. The angry sword he will not whet, His nobler task is—to forget.
The Crowing of the Red Cock
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