He said: “Art thou the Son of God?” expecting

“Thou has said it—” or some such words

From a humble man ashamed to admit

That he too would shoot down Pleasure’s singing birds.

But I took my heart in my hands and showed it

Constricted by selfish muscles and I denied

That I was prepared to die for the sins of men

And he tore the dust of death that was his hair and said I lied.

“He’s great, he’s God” he ran through the streets telling

Everybody that would listen. I was enticed

To accept. But I dashed over the hills when they hammered the cross—

The Christ that won’t die is a mean Christ.

Out beyond Calvary I found myself a house

And lived there in comfort. But I could hear

Often on summer evenings from the deserts of the heart

Of man the cry for the blood of God’s own Son.