The Critics at Gethsemane

Even here we meet the Critics. The deep grief,
Which all imaginative Art would faint
To express — the Angel's visit of relief —
The God bow'd earthward like some mourning saint —
They tone down all in their unhappy way;
Distilling rose-tints from their Saviour's blood,
The God-man's sweat of anguish! to portray
Their sweet young Syrian — so divinely good,
' We must forgive His worshippers,' they say;
Not so the Church! and tho' she needs must blush
At her own feeble handling, yet alway,
When she would paint her Master's darkest day,
She takes the full-hued life-drop on her brush,
And works, in simple faith, as best she may.