The Church-Builder

The church flings forth a battled shadeOver the moon-blanched sward;The church; my gift; whereto I paidMy all in hand and hoard:Lavished my gains5With stintless painsTo glorify the Lord.

I squared the broad foundations inOf ashlared masonry;I moulded mullions thick and thin,10Hewed fillet and ogee;I circletedEach sculptured headWith nimb and canopy.

I called in many a craftsmaster15To fix emblazoned glass,To figure Cross and SepulchreOn dossal, boss, and brass.My gold all spent,My jewels went20To gem the cups of Mass.

I borrowed deep to carve the screenAnd raise the ivoried Rood;I parted with my small demesneTo make my owings good.25Heir-looms unpricedI sacrificed,Until debt-free I stood.

So closed the task. “Deathless the CreedHere substanced!” said my soul:30“I heard me bidden to this deed,And straight obeyed the call.Illume this fane,That not in vainI build it, Lord of all!”35

But, as it chanced me, then and thereDid dire misfortunes burst;My home went waste for lack of care,My sons rebelled and curst;Till I confessed40That aims the bestWere looking like the worst.

Enkindled by my votive workNo burning faith I find;The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk,45And give my toil no mind;From nod and winkI read they thinkThat I am fool and blind.

My gift to God seems futile, quite;50The world moves as erstwhile;And powerful wrong on feeble rightTramples in olden style.My faith burns down,I see no crown;55But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile.

So now, the remedy? Yea, this:I gently swing the doorHere, of my fane⁠—no soul to wis⁠—And cross the patterned floor60To the rood-screenThat stands betweenThe nave and inner chore.

The rich red windows dim the moon,But little light need I;65I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewnFrom woods of rarest dye;Then from belowMy garment, so,I draw this cord, and tie70

One end thereof around the beamMidway ’twixt Cross and truss:I noose the nethermost extreme,And in ten seconds thusI journey hence⁠—75To that land whenceNo rumour reaches us.

Well: Here at morn they’ll light on oneDangling in mockeryOf what he spent his substance on80Blindly and uselessly! . . .“He might,” they’ll say,“Have built, some way.A cheaper gallows-tree!”