Outcast

I did not fear,
But crept close up to Christ and said,
"Is He not here?"

They drew me back--
The seraphs who had never bled
Of weary lack--

But still I cried,
With torn robe, clutching at His feet,
"Dear Christ! He died

So long ago!
Is He not here? Three days, unfleet
As mortal flow

Of time I've sought--
Till Heaven's amaranthine ways
Seem as sere nought!"

A grieving stole
Up from His heart and waned the gaze
Of His clear soul

Into my eyes.
"He is not here," troubled He sighed.
"For none who dies

Beliefless may
Bend lips to this sin-healing Tide,
And live alway."

Then darkness rose
Within me, and drear bitterness.
Out of its throes

I moaned, at last,
"Let me go hence! Take off the dress,
The charms Thou hast

Around me strown!
Beliefless too am I without
His love--and lone!"

Unto the Gate
They led me, tho' with pitying doubt.
I did not wait

But stepped across
Its portal, turned not once to heed
Or know my loss.

Then my dream broke,
And with it every loveless creed--
Beneath love's stroke.