Disguises

High stretched upon the swinging yard,  
I gather in the sheet;  
But it is hard  
And stiff, and one cries haste.  
Then He that is most dear in my regard          
Of all the crew gives aidance meet;  
But from His hands, and from His feet,  
A glory spreads wherewith the night is starred:  
Moreover of a cup most bitter-sweet  
With fragrance as of nard,         
And myrrh, and cassia spiced,  
He proffers me to taste.  
Then I to Him:—‘Art Thou the Christ?’  
He saith—‘Thou say’st.’  
 
Like to an ox         
That staggers ’neath the mortal blow,  
She grinds upon the rocks:—  
Then straight and low  
Leaps forth the levelled line, and in our quarter locks  
The cradle’s rigged; with swerving of the blast         
We go,  
Our Captain last—  
Demands  
‘Who fired that shot?’ Each silent stands—  
Ah, sweet perplexity!         
This too was He.  
 
I have an arbour wherein came a toad  
Most hideous to see—  
Immediate, seizing staff or goad,  
I smote it cruelly.         
Then all the place with subtle radiance glowed—  
I looked, and it was He!