The Ninth Hour

TWO POEMS

THE NINTH HOUR

On this tree beneath the night,

Thief to left and thief to right,

Many things I see in pain

Better done, if done again:

When I strayed and turned aside,

Weaving miracles in pride-

I, who should not have forgot

What was godhead, what was not. . ..

How came I between two thieves

Staring at'the olive leaves?

All is foreign, all is strange-

But these spikes that will not change.

Yea, I say, to him that hath

Shall be given. . . . Yea, though death...

God, whose son I tried to be-

Why hast thou forsaken me!