He faced me, reeling in his weariness,

Shouldering his load of planks, so hard to bear.

I say that he was Christ, who wrought to bless

All groping things with freedom bright as air,

And with His mercy washed and made them fair.

Then the flame sank, and all grew black as pitch,

While we began to struggle along the ditch;

And some one flung his burden in the muck,

Mumbling: “O Christ Almighty, now I’m stuck!”

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