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 lie 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!