Armand Barbs

I     Fire out of heaven, a flower of perfect fire,     That where the roots of life are had its root     And where the fruits of time are brought forth fruit;     A faith made flesh, a visible desire,     That heard the yet unbreathing years respire     And speech break forth of centuries that sit mute     Beyond all feebler footprint of pursuit;     That touched the highest of hope, and went up higher;     A heart love-wounded whereto love was law,     A soul reproachless without fear or flaw,     A shining spirit without shadow of shame,     A memory made of all mens love and awe;     Being disembodied, so thou be the same,     What need, O soul, to sign thee with thy name? II     All woes of all men sat upon thy soul     And all their wrongs were heavy on thy head;     With all their wounds thy heart was pierced and bled,     And in thy spirit as in a mourning scroll     The worlds huge sorrows were inscribed by roll,     All theirs on earth who serve and faint for bread,     All banished mens, all theirs in prison dead,     Thy love had heart and sword-hand for the whole.     This was my day of glory, didst thou say,     When, by the scaffold thou hadst hope to climb     For thy faiths sake, they brought thee respite; Nay,     I shall not die then, I have missed my day.     O hero, O our help, O head sublime,     Thy day shall be commensurate with time.