The Augurs

DARKEN the Temple from the light,
Shut out the sun and sky, —
In Darkness deep as Death and Ni<
Lead forth the Lamb to die!
We hold the golden knife aloft, andlo! prophesy.

Augurs and priests in crimson stoled,
We ring the Altar round:
Above us, gaunt and grey and cold,
The Man-god hangs, thorn-crown'd—
Ragged and wretched waits the crowd, watching, without a sound.

With blood their hunger we appease
(Else all our task were vain);
Trembling they watch on bended knees
The Man-god's sculptured pain;
Then wait in wonder while we search the entrails of the Slain!