A Sacred Dialogue

The silver Bishop of Bethlehem,
A desolate Turkish town,
Speaks with a shape each Christmas day
That floats to music down.

THE BISHOP OF BETHLEHEM
Peace and goodwill, Son of the King !
Thy Birthday and Thy Star !

CHRIST
Peace and goodwill the world may sing :
But we shall talk of war !
How fare my armies of the North ?

THE BISHOP
They wait victorious peace,
All the high forts of Macedon
Fly the proud flag of Greece.

CHRIST
Then surely on that Eastern dome
The Allies' cross is gleaming,
Redeemed my loved and ancient home !

THE BISHOP
Ah, it still waits redeeming !

CHRIST
Still waits — Five hundred years, and still
My soldiers wait — so long ?

THE BISHOP
Thou hast Fate's sceptre. What thy will
Dooms could split earth, thou Strong !

CHRIST
My nations are steel towers built tall,
Shepherd of Bethlehem,
Tell none this Moslem cracked stone wall
Is more than jest for them ?

Yet Islam oft would strip and slay
Christian woman and child,
And Europe feast that Christmas day
A coward reconciled.

Yet some day o'er Pamphylian waves
Shall Byzant chants be ringing,
And rose-crowned hermits leave their caves
And sail to Patmos singing ;

Some day Nicea's pool again
Shall bear the creed of the World,
And that day crashing from my fane
Shall that horned moon be hurled.

Then some deep-faithed Priest will shout
" Oh, cease ye bells forlorn,
We have forgotten Jerusalem
And the land where He was born ! "

Then the black cannons of the Lord
Shall wake crusading ghosts
And the Milky Way shall swing like a sword
When Jerusalem vomits its horde
On the Christmas day preferred of the Lord,
The Christmas day of the Hosts !