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Poem	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!
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