Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Before A Crucifix

Before A Crucifix Image
"Before a Crucifix".

Here, down between the dusty trees,

At this lank edge of haggard wood,

Women with labour-loosened knees,

With gaunt backs bowed by servitude,

Stop, shift their loads, and pray, and fare

Forth with souls easier for the prayer.

The suns have branded black, the rains

Striped grey this piteous God of theirs;

The face is full of prayers and pains,

To which they bring their pains and prayers;

Lean limbs that shew the labouring bones,

And ghastly mouth that gapes and groans.

God of this grievous people, wrought

After the likeness of their race,

By faces like thine own besought,

Thine own blind helpless eyeless face,

I too, that have nor tongue nor knee

For prayer, I have a word to thee.

It was for this then, that thy speech

Was blown about the world in flame

And men's souls shot up out of reach

Of fear or lust or thwarting shame -

That thy faith over souls should pass

As sea-winds burning the grey grass?

It was for this, that prayers like these

Should spend themselves about thy feet,

And with hard overlaboured knees

Kneeling, these slaves of men should beat

Bosoms too lean to suckle sons

And fruitless as their orisons?

It was for this, that men should make

Thy name a fetter on men's necks,

Poor men's made poorer for thy sake,

And women's withered out of sex?

It was for this, that slaves should be,

Thy word was passed to set men free?

The nineteenth wave of the ages rolls

Now deathward since thy death and birth.

Hast thou fed full men's starved-out souls?

Hast thou brought freedom upon earth?

Or are there less oppressions done

In this wild world under the sun?

Nay, if indeed thou be not dead,

Before thy terrene shrine be shaken,

Look down, turn usward, bow thine head;

O thou that wast of God forsaken,

Look on thine household here, and see

These that have not forsaken thee.

Thy faith is fire upon their lips,

Thy kingdom golden in their hands;

They scourge us with thy words for whips,

They brand us with thy words for brands;

The thirst that made thy dry throat shrink

To their moist mouths commends the drink.

The toothed thorns that bit thy brows

Lighten the weight of gold on theirs;

Thy nakedness enrobes thy spouse

With the soft sanguine stuff she wears

Whose old limbs use for ointment yet

Thine agony and bloody sweat.

The blinding buffets on thine head

On their crowned heads confirm the crown;

Thy scourging dyes their raiment red,

And with thy bands they fasten down

For burial in the blood-bought field

The nations by thy stripes unhealed.

With iron for thy linen bands

And unclean cloths for winding-sheet

They bind the people's nail-pierced hands,

They hide the people's nail-pierced feet;

And what man or what angel known

Shall roll back the sepulchral stone?

But these have not the rich man's grave

To sleep in when their pain is done.

These were not fit for God to save.

As naked hell-fire is the sun

In their eyes living, and when dead

These have not where to lay their head.

They have no tomb to dig, and hide;

Earth is not theirs, that they should sleep.

On all these tombless crucified

No lovers' eyes have time to weep.

So still, for all man's tears and creeds,

The sacred body hangs and bleeds.

Through the left hand a nail is driven,

Faith, and another through the right,

Forged in the fires of hell and heaven,

Fear that puts out the eye of light:

And the feet soiled and scarred and pale

Are pierced with falsehood for a nail.

And priests against the mouth divine

Push their sponge full of poison yet

And bitter blood for myrrh and wine,

And on the same reed is it set

Wherewith before they buffeted

The people's disanointed head.

O sacred head, O desecrate,

O labour-wounded feet and hands,

O blood poured forth in pledge to fate

Of nameless lives in divers lands,

O slain and spent and sacrificed

People, the grey-grown speechless Christ!

Is there a gospel in the red

Old witness of thy wide-mouthed wounds?

From thy blind stricken tongueless head

What desolate evangel sounds

A hopeless note of hope deferred?

What word, if there be any word?

O son of man, beneath man's feet

Cast down, O common face of man

Whereon all blows and buffets meet,

O royal, O republican

Face of the people bruised and dumb

And longing till thy kingdom come!

The soldiers and the high priests part

Thy vesture: all thy days are priced,

And all the nights that eat thine heart.

And that one seamless coat of Christ,

The freedom of the natural soul,

They cast their lots for to keep whole.

No fragment of it save the name

They leave thee for a crown of scorns

Wherewith to mock thy naked shame

And forehead bitten through with thorns

And, marked with sanguine sweat and tears,

The stripes of eighteen hundred years

And we seek yet if God or man

Can loosen thee as Lazarus,

Bid thee rise up republican

And save thyself and all of us;

But no disciple's tongue can say

When thou shalt take our sins away.

And mouldering now and hoar with moss

Between us and the sunlight swings

The phantom of a Christless cross

Shadowing the sheltered heads of kings

And making with its moving shade

The souls of harmless men afraid.

It creaks and rocks to left and right

Consumed of rottenness and rust,

Worm-eaten of the worms of night,

Dead as their spirits who put trust,

Round its base muttering as they sit,

In the time-cankered name of it.

Thou, in the day that breaks thy prison,

People, though these men take thy name,

And hail and hymn thee rearisen,

Who made songs erewhile of thy shame,

Give thou not ear; for these are they

Whose good day was thine evil day.

Set not thine hand unto their cross.

Give not thy soul up sacrificed.

Change not the gold of faith for dross

Of Christian creeds that spit on Christ.

Let not thy tree of freedom be

Regrafted from that rotting tree.

This dead God here against my face

Hath help for no man; who hath seen

The good works of it, or such grace

As thy grace in it, Nazarene,

As that from thy live lips which ran

For man's sake, O thou son of man?

The tree of faith ingraffed by priests

Puts its foul foliage out above thee,

And round it feed man-eating beasts

Because of whom we dare not love thee;

Though hearts reach back and memories ache,

We cannot praise thee for their sake.

O hidden face of man, whereover

The years have woven a viewless veil,

If thou wast verily man's lover,

What did thy love or blood avail?

Thy blood the priests make poison of,

And in gold shekels coin thy love.

So when our souls look back to thee

They sicken, seeing against thy side,

Too foul to speak of or to see,

The leprous likeness of a bride,

Whose kissing lips through his lips grown

Leave their God rotten to the bone.

When we would see thee man, and know

What heart thou hadst toward men indeed,

Lo, thy blood-blackened altars; lo,

The lips of priests that pray and feed

While their own hell's worm curls and licks

The poison of the crucifix.

Thou bad'st let children come to thee;

What children now but curses come?

What manhood in that God can be

Who sees their worship, and is dumb?

No soul that lived, loved, wrought, and died,

Is this their carrion crucified.

Nay, if their God and thou be one,

If thou and this thing be the same,

Thou shouldst not look upon the sun;

The sun grows haggard at thy name.

Come down, be done with, cease, give o'er;

Hide thyself, strive not, be no more.

Also try this free pdf e-books:

Richard Spence - Secret Agent 666 Introduction
Aleister Crowley - Liber 075 Vel Lucifery

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