Is this the feast, my Lord, these bitter herbs
Of duty's sharp demands? Their taste disturbs
My worldly ease, but promises a gain
Beyond all dreams of pleasure or of pain.
Is this the feast, this plain unleavened bread?
It lacks sense satisfaction, and instead
Is food that pleases not the carnal tooth:
"Unleavened bread of sincerity and truth."
Is this the cup, my Lord, this lifted cross?
Does inspiration's joy come from the loss
Of earth's brief ecstasies? I did not know
That wine from such a cup as this would flow.
And, ah, this Paschal Lamb, is it the meat
Of sacrifice? I must do more than eat
The flesh and then forget the good thereof.
"This is my commandment, That ye love."
These bitter herbs, unleavened bread, and wine,
This Lamb of sacrifice—let them be mine
To pass from sense to Soul and so afford
Deeds worth Thy love. This is the feast, my Lord.
