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Written by: Thomas Edward Brown | Biography
 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— 
‘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!