from A Dearth of Prose
Sweet sonnet of thw awful grove
where life and death fain interwove
not cosmic chance; not barbarous rule
where Christ displayed his love.
Amid the dark Judaean trees:
the rivulets of blood and tear
of Man Divine on prostrate knee
down on the earth was spent.
'In perfect peace dwelt you and I
before the light was spoke.
Ere eyes the worlds subjected to,
the cup of life we drank.
But late the vine'ternal born
of Joseph, though of thee.
The fruit we drank ere morn began
in past eternity.
Abba, my cup with poison laced;
this is man's fortune right.
But must I drink this raw estate -
I drink for thee, tonight.'