Their clouded wine, their whited bread,
We cannot take and call it good;
Yet sorrier fare Life grudges us
Who have no taste for common food.
We must go hungry long life through,
Aching and hungry to the end;
Betrayed by pity into chains
Reason tries vainly to transcend.
Are we not sadly prodigal?
We spend ourselves without restraint;
Yea, we let Beauty break our hearts
And bleed for love until we faint.
Yet it is not the thorns, the shame,
Not the hurt body's weak distress:
Our bitterest crucifixion lies
In man's abject unworthiness.
From Life's rough cloth and flying threads,
From dust, from passion, dreams and pain,
From the dear madness men call love,
From faith that lies beyond the brain,
We shape the only deathless soul
That mortal man will ever know.
Behold his gratitude, these stones.
They say't is by the heart we grow.