The archetypal weeping figured not
In primal framing of drench’d sky and sea,
Nor lonely Adam’s, help-meet unbegot,
Nor daily drinkfall of the appletree.
Heard not at nature’s howling mangerside;
Felt not at wrenching witness of bereaved;
Dripped not in garden holy will complied;
Gushed not in piercings past Gethsemene.
But soil’s son ascending glorified,
And sensing (until then) unmuddied spheres,
Welled up wet gratitude which understands
Made-miracle of man from the inside;
And let fall the first truly human tears
In wonder at the beauty of his hands.