From within our pens, Stout built, We watch the sorrows of the world. Imperturbably We see the blood Drip and ooze on to the walls. Without a sigh We watch our lambs Stuffed and fattened for the slaughter....
In our liquid eyes lie hidden The mystery of empty spaces All the secrets of the vacuum.
Yet we can be moved; When the head-sheep bleats, We bleat with him; When he stampedes --Heavy with foot-rot-- We gallop after him Until In our frenzy We trip him up --And a new sheep leads us.
We are the greatest sheep in the world; There are no sheep like us. We come of an imperial bleat; Our voices, Trembling with music, Call to our lambs oversea. With us they crash across continents.
We will not heed the herdsmen, For they warned us, "Do not stampede"; Yet we were forced to do so. Never will we trust a herdsman again.
Then the black lamb asked, Saying, "Why did we start this glorious Gadarene descent?" And the herd bleated angrily, "We went in with clean feet, And we will come out with empty heads. We gain nothing by it, Therefore It is a noble thing to do. We are stampeding to end stampedes. We are fighting for lambs Who are never likely to be born.
When once a sheep gets its blood up The goats will remember...."
But the herdsman swooped down Shouting, "Get back to your pens there."
Before the dawning of the death-day My mind was a confusion of beauty. Thoughts fell from it in riot Of colour, In wreaths and garlands of flowers and fruit...
Then the red dawn came --And no thought came to me Except anger And bitter reproach. God filled my mouth With the burning pebbles of hatred, And choked my soul With a whirl-wind of fury. He made my tongue A flaming sword To cut and wither The white soft edges Of their anæmic souls. I ridiculed them, I despised them, I loathed them ... But they had stolen my soul away.
Yes, they had stolen my soul from me. My heart jumps up into my mouth In fury; They have stolen my soul away.
But we will wait, And later words will come --Words that in their burning flight Shall scorch and flay, Or flare like fireworks Above their heads. In those days my soul shall be restored to me And they shall remember, They shall remember!
Judas descended to this lower Hell To meet his only friend--the profiteer-- Who, looking fat and rubicund and well, Regarded him, and then said with a sneer, "Iscariot, they did you! Fool! to sell For silver pence the body of God's Son, Whereas for maiming men with sword and shell I gain at least a golden million."