And always then the thin blood raced 
From out the stricken side. 
 
The incense fumes, the chant is low, 
Perfume around is shed ; 
I am as one of Them who know 
The secrets of the dead : 
The sorrows that walk to and fro, 
The love that hides his head. 
 
O living Head !  whose thorns are keen 
To bruise and pierce and slay ; 
O Christ !  whose eyes have always been 
Fixed fast upon the way, 
Where dim Jerusalem was seen 
A city cold and grey ! 
 
The flowers of fire that grow beneath, 
And blossom on the Tree 
Are fed from his despair and death 
Who sings of land and sea, 
And all those mountains where thy breath, 
Jehovah, still must be. 
 
96