150. Disguises

HIGH stretched upon the swinging yard,

I gather in the sheet;

But it is hard

And stiff, and one cries haste.

Then He that is most dear in my regard

Of all the crew gives aidance meet;

But from His hands, and from His feet,

A glory spreads wherewith the night is starred:

Moreover of a cup most bitter-sweet

With fragrance as of nard,

And myrrh, and cassia spiced,

He proffers me to taste.

Then I to Him:—‘Art Thou the Christ?’

He saith—‘Thou say’st.’

Like to an ox

That staggers ’neath the mortal blow,

She grinds upon the rocks:—

Then straight and low

Leaps forth the levelled line, and in our quarter locks

The cradle’s rigged; with swerving of the blast

We go,

Our Captain last—

Demands

‘Who fired that shot?’ Each silent stands—

Ah, sweet perplexity!

This too was He.

I have an arbour wherein came a toad

Most hideous to see—

Immediate, seizing staff or goad,

I smote it cruelly.

Then all the place with subtle radiance glowed—

I looked, and it was He!