The Church-Builder

By Thomas Hardy

6/2/1840-1/11/1928


I

The church flings forth a battled shade
         Over the moon-blanched sward;
The church; my gift; whereto I paid
         My all in hand and hoard:
         Lavished my gains
         With stintless pains
         To glorify the Lord.

II

I squared the broad foundations in
         Of ashlared masonry;
I moulded mullions thick and thin,
         Hewed fillet and ogee;
         I circleted
         Each sculptured head
         With nimb and canopy.

III

I called in many a craftsmaster
         To fix emblazoned glass,
To figure Cross and Sepulchre
         On dossal, boss, and brass.
         My gold all spent,
         My jewels went
         To gem the cups of Mass.

IV

I borrowed deep to carve the screen
         And raise the ivoried Rood;
I parted with my small demesne
         To make my owings good.
         Heir-looms unpriced
         I sacrificed,
         Until debt-free I stood.

V

So closed the task. "Deathless the Creed
         Here substanced!" said my soul:
"I heard me bidden to this deed,
         And straight obeyed the call.
         Illume this fane,
         That not in vain
         I build it, Lord of all!"

VI

But, as it chanced me, then and there
         Did dire misfortunes burst;
My home went waste for lack of care,
         My sons rebelled and curst;
         Till I confessed
         That aims the best
         Were looking like the worst.

VII

Enkindled by my votive work
         No burning faith I find;
The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk,
         And give my toil no mind;
         From nod and wink
         I read they think
         That I am fool and blind.

VIII

My gift to God seems futile, quite;
         The world moves as erstwhile;
And powerful wrong on feeble right
         Tramples in olden style.
         My faith burns down,
         I see no crown;
         But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile.

IX

So now, the remedy? Yea, this:
         I gently swing the door
Here, of my fane--no soul to wis -
         And cross the patterned floor
         To the rood-screen
         That stands between
         The nave and inner chore.

X

The rich red windows dim the moon,
         But little light need I;
I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn
         From woods of rarest dye;
         Then from below
         My garment, so,
         I draw this cord, and tie

XI

One end thereof around the beam
         Midway 'twixt Cross and truss:
I noose the nethermost extreme,
         And in ten seconds thus
         I journey hence -
         To that land whence
         No rumour reaches us.

XII

Well: Here at morn they'll light on one
         Dangling in mockery
Of what he spent his substance on
         Blindly and uselessly! . . .
         "He might," they'll say,
         "Have built, some way.
         A cheaper gallows-tree!"

DayPoems Poem No. 1078
<a href="http://www.daypoems.net/poems/1078.html">The Church-Builder by Thomas Hardy</a>

The DayPoems Poetry Collection, www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor

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