At the Madeleine

I saw a cross of burning gold
And jewels glorious to behold;

Over it a golden crown,
All the people falling down.

I saw an ugly cross of wood,
On it there were stains of blood;

Over it a crown of thorn.
Plaited for the people's scorn.

Cross of gold, no fruit was thine,
Nothing but the empty, shrine.

Cross of wood, thou living tree,
The true vine clung fast to thee.