Death and the Lord

DEATH touched the Winter’s arm, and spoke: —
‘Faith, you are pleasing in my sight.
A thousand of this beggar-folk
Knocked at my Iron Gate last night.’ —

‘I starved the fools that paid for fire,
I froze the fools that paid for meat.
I have my human helpers, Sire.’ —
Nodding, quoth Death, ‘The trick was neat.

‘The old,’ quoth Death, ‘the white of hair,
That lived their span and seek the grave —
What prize are those? But these were fair,
And all were young, and most were brave.

‘ I saw them stiffen in the gloom,
Waiting, wide-eyed, the tardy dawn.
The huddled dozen in the room —
How should they know that one was gone?

‘They lay all silent, black and grim —
But once a woman’s wail I heard,
Praying a cursing prayer to Him,
That Saviour whom I once half feared.

‘ Poor Jesus Christ! A gift to me
Upon a hill they nailed him high.
Yet I have seen since, mistily,
His Face, and wondered, Did He die ?

‘That was the only Face that e’er
Woke aught in me but scorn of men.
Fools, fools, mankind! Who will not bear
That Face against my hosts again!

‘By all the stinging tears that flow
Because of me, by all the grace
That might have been on earth, I know
I could be bondsman to that Face.’

Death plucked the Winter’s sleeve, and spoke: —
‘Christ is not here. Your work is light.
A thousand of this beggar-folk
Send whirling to my Gate to-night.’