G. K. Chesterton

      Great God, that bowest sky and star,
       Bow down our towering thoughts to thee,
      And grant us in a faltering war
        The firm feet of humility.

      Lord, we that snatch the swords of flame,
        Lord, we that cry about Thy ear,
      We too are weak with pride and shame,
        We too are as our foemen are.

      Yea, we are mad as they are mad,
        Yea, we are blind as they are blind,
      Yea, we are very sick and sad
        Who bring good news to all mankind.

      The dreadful joy Thy Son has sent
        Is heavier than any care;
      We find, as Cain his punishment,
        Our pardon more than we can bear.

      Lord, when we cry Thee far and near
        And thunder through all lands unknown
      The gospel into every ear,
        Lord, let us not forget our own.

      Cleanse us from ire of creed or class,
        The anger of the idle kings;
      Sow in our souls, like living grass,
        The laughter of all lowly things.

King Alfred answers the Danes

      'When God put man in a garden
      He girt him with a sword,
      And sent him forth a free knight
      That might betray his lord;

      'He brake Him and betrayed Him,
      And fast and far he fell,
      Till you and I may stretch our necks
      And burn our beards in hell.

      'But though I lie on the floor of the world,
      With the seven sins for rods,
      I would rather fall with Adam
      Than rise with all your gods.

      'What have the strong gods given?
      Where have the glad gods led?
      When Guthrum sits on a hero's throne
      And asks if he is dead?

      'Sirs, I am but a nameless man,
      A rhymester without home,
      Yet since I come of the Wessex clay
      And carry the cross of Rome,

      'I will even answer the mighty earl
      That asked of Wessex men
      Why they be meek and monkish folk,
      And bow to the White Lord's broken yoke;
      What sign have we save blood and smoke?
      Here is my answer then.

      'That on you is fallen the shadow,
      And not upon the Name;
      That though we scatter and though we fly,
      And you hang over us like the sky,
      You are more tired of victory,
      Than we are tired of shame.

      'That though you hunt the Christian man
      Like a hare on the hill-side,
      The hare has still more heart to run
      Than you have heart to ride.

      'That though all lances split on you,
      All swords be heaved in vain,
      We have more lust again to lose
      Than you to win again.

      'Your lord sits high in the saddle,
      A broken-hearted king,
      But our king Alfred, lost from fame,
      Fallen among foes or bonds of shame,
      In I know not what mean trade or name,
      Has still some song to sing;

      'Our monks go robed in rain and snow,
      But the heart of flame therein,
      But you go clothed in feasts and flames,
      When all is ice within;

      'Nor shall all iron dooms make dumb
      Men wondering ceaselessly,
      If it be not better to fast for joy
      Than feast for misery.

      'Nor monkish order only
      Slides down, as field to fen,
      All things achieved and chosen pass,
      As the White Horse fades in the grass,
      No work of Christian men.

      'Ere the sad gods that made your gods
      Saw their sad sunrise pass,
      The White Horse of the White Horse Vale,
      That you have left to darken and fail,
      Was cut out of the grass.

      'Therefore your end is on you,
      Is on you and your kings,
      Not for a fire in Ely fen,
      Not that your gods are nine or ten,
      But because it is only Christian men
      Guard even heathen things.

      'For our God hath blessed creation,
      Calling it good. I know
      What spirit with whom you blindly band
      Hath blessed destruction with his hand;
      Yet by God's death the stars shall stand
      And the small apples grow.'