Father, your light grows dim
And I cannot find
Blake's "countenance divine",
But when I look behind
I see your shadow merge
Into the night
And all is quiet then.

Calcutta cries!
Is that a voice that lies?
And does their howling pain
Cancel all our gain?

"Our Father -", every day
Your children cry.
Why? 
Are they "-the least of them-",
Spare leaves upon the stem?
Father!
Your light grows grim.

Give me no sterling prayer,
Carved elegance of tone,
Your ears and eyes
Are whittled out of stone.

I hang no need up there
Upon that bloodied tree!
Yet here I stand
As Martin did
Transfixed before the shame
To cry the one true name.

I know the scholar's game,
And scorned the priestly claim,
The end was all the same,
One life, one hope, one name.
No other ever came.