The Church-Builder by Thomas Hardy Lyrics

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!"