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n through my soul a clear light shone; What I would do, my Lord has done; He bore the whole world's crown of thorn-- For her sake, too, that crown was worn!
THE DEVIL'S DUE.
A priest tells how, in his youth, a church was built by the free labour of love--as was men's wont in those days; and how the stone and wood were paid for by one who had grown rich on usury and the pillage of the poor--and of what chanced thereafter.
Arsenius, priest of God, I tell, For warning in your younger ears, Humbly and plainly what befel That year--gone by a many years-- When Veraignes church was built. Ah! then Brave churches grew 'neath hands of men: We see not now their like again.
We built it on the green hill-side That leans its bosom o'er the town, So that its presence, sanctified, Might ever on our lives look down. We built; and those who built not, they Brought us their blessing day by day, And lingered to rejoice and pray.
For years the masons toiled, for years The craftsmen wrought till they had made A church we scarce could see for tears-- Its fairness made our love afraid. Its clear-cut cream-white tracery Stood out against the deep bright sky Like good deeds 'gainst eternity.
In the deep roof each separate beam Had its own garland--ivy, vine,-- Giving to man the carver's dream, In sight of men a certain sign-- And all day long the workers plied. "The church shall finished be," we cried, "And consecrate by Easter-tide."
Our church! It was so fair, so dear, So fit a church to praise God in! It had such show of carven gear, Such chiselled work, without, within! Such marble for the steps and floor, Such window-jewels and such store Of gold and gems the altar bore!
At last the echo died in air Of the last stroke. The silence then Passed in to fill the church, left bare Of the loving voice of Christian men. The silence saddened all the sun, So gladly was our work begun. Now all that happy work was done.
Did any voices in the night Call through those arches? Were there wings That swept between the pillars white-- Wide pinions of unvisioned things? The priests who watched the relics heard Wing-whispers--not of bat or bird-- And moan of inarticulate word.
Then sunlight, morning, and sweet air Adorned our church, and there were borne Great sheaves of boughs of blossoms fair To grace the consecration morn. Then round our church trooped knight and dame; Within, alone, the bishop came, And the twelve candles leaped to flame.
Then round our church the bishop went With all his priests--a brave array. There was no sign nor portent sent As, glad at heart, he went his way, Sprinkling the holy water round Three times on walls and crowd and ground Within the churchyard's sacred bound.
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