High stretched upon the swinging yard, <br />I gather in the sheet; <br />But it is hard <br />And stiff, and one cries haste. <br />Then He that is most dear in my regard <br />Of all the crew gives aidance meet; <br />But from His hands, and from His feet, <br />A glory spreads wherewith the night is starred: <br />Moreover of a cup most bitter-sweet <br />With fragrance as of nard, <br />And myrrh, and cassia spiced, <br />He proffers me to taste. <br />Then I to Him:—‘Art Thou the Christ?’ <br />He saith—‘Thou say’st.’ <br /> <br />Like to an ox <br />That staggers ’neath the mortal blow, <br />She grinds upon the rocks:— <br />Then straight and low <br />Leaps forth the levelled line, and in our quarter locks <br />The cradle’s rigged; with swerving of the blast <br />We go, <br />Our Captain last— <br />Demands <br />‘Who fired that shot?’ Each silent stands— <br />Ah, sweet perplexity! <br />This too was He. <br /> <br />I have an arbour wherein came a toad <br />Most hideous to see— <br />Immediate, seizing staff or goad, <br />I smote it cruelly. <br />Then all the place with subtle radiance glowed— <br />I looked, and it was He!<br /><br />Thomas Edward Brown<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/disguises/
