Yours is the shame and sorrow, 
 But the disgrace is mine; 
 Your love was dark and thorough, 
 Mine was the love of the sun for a flower 
 He creates with his shine. 

 I was diligent to explore you, 
 Blossom you stalk by stalk, 
 Till my fire of creation bore you 
 Shrivelling down in the final dour 
 Anguish -- then I suffered a balk. 

 I knew your pain, and it broke 
 My fine, craftsman's nerve; 
 Your body quailed at my stroke, 
 And my courage failed to give you the last 
 Fine torture you did deserve. 

 You are shapely, you are adorned, 
 But opaque and dull in the flesh, 
 Who, had I but pierced with the thorned 
 Fire-threshing anguish, were fused and cast 
 In a lovely illumined mesh. 

 Like a painted window: the best 
 Suffering burnt through your flesh, 
 Undrossed it and left it blest 
 With a quivering sweet wisdom of grace: but now 
 Who shall take you afresh? 

 Now who will burn you free 
 From your body's terrors and dross, 
 Since the fire has failed in me? 
 What man will stoop in your flesh to plough 
 The shrieking cross? 

 A mute, nearly beautiful thing 
 Is your face, that fills me with shame 
 As I see it hardening, 
 Warping the perfect image of God, 
 And darkening my eternal fame.