Good Friday

There is wild shower and winter on the main.
Foreign and hostile, as the flood of Styx,
The rumbling water: and the clouds that mix
And drop across the land, and drive again
Whelm as they pass. And yet the bitter rain,
The fierce exclusion hurt me not; I fix
My thought on the deep-blooded crucifix
My lips adore, and there is no more pain:
A Power is with me that can love, can die,
That loves, and is deserted, and abides;
A loneliness that craves me and enthrals;
And I am one with that extremity,
One with that strength. I hear the alien tides
No more, no more the universe appals.