He might have reared a palace at a word,
Who sometimes had not where to lay his head:
Time was, and He who nourished crowds with bread
Would not one meal unto Himself afford:
Twelve legions girded with angelic sword
Were at his beck, the scorned and buffeted:
He healed another's scratch, his own side bled,
Side, feet, and hands, with cruel piercings gored.
Oh wonderful the wonders left undone!
And scarce less wonderful than those He wrought;
Oh self-restraint, passing all human thought,
To have all power, and be as having none;
Oh self-denying Love, which felt alone
For needs of others, never for its own!
