Before the Altar of the world in flower,
Upon whose steps thy creatures kneel in line,
We do beseech Thee in this wild Spring hour,
Grant us, O Lord, thy wine. But not this wine.
Helpless, we, praying by Thy shimmering seas,
Beside Thy fields, whence all the world is fed,
Thy little children clinging about Thy knees,
Cry: 'Grant us, Lord, Thy bread!' But not this bread.
This wine of awful sacrifice outpoured;
This bread of life -- of human lives. The Press
Is overflowing, the Wine-Press of the Lord! . .
Yet doth he tread the foamings no less.
These stricken lands! The green time of the year
Has found them wasted by a purple flood,
Sodden and wasted everywhere, everywhere; --
Not all our tears may cleanse them from that blood.