Yea, Pitiless

YEA, Thou art pitiless — Thou dost permit
The Priest to use Thee as a hangman's cord —
Thou proppest up the Layman's shallow wit,
Driving the Beggar from the laden board —
Thou art the easy text of those who hoard
Their gifts in secret chests for Death to see.
'Mighty and strong and glorious is the Lord! '
The Prophet cries, gone mad for lack of Thee!
While good men dying deem Thy grace a dream,
While sick men wail for Thee and mad blaspheme,
A thousand forms of Thee the foolish preach —
Fair stretch Thy temples over all the lands,
In each of these some barbarous Image stands,
And men grow atheists in the shrine of each.