page: 53
The Devil’s Due
A priest tells how, in his youth, a church was built by the free labour of love—as was men’s wont in those days; and how the stone and wood were paid for by one who had grown rich on usury and the pillage of the poor—and of what chanced thereafter.
- ARSENIUS, priest of God, I tell,
- For warning in your younger ears,
- Humbly and plainly what befell
- That year—hone by a many years—
- When Veraignes church was built. Ah! then
- Brave churches grew ’neath hands of men:
- We see not now their like again.
- We built it on the green hill‐side
- That leans its bosom o’er the town,
- So that its presence, sanctified,
- Might ever on our lives look down.
- We built; and those who built not, they
- Brought us their blessing day by day,
- And lingered to rejoice and pray.
- For years the masons toiled, for years
- The craftsmen wrought till they had made
- A church we scarce could see for tears—
- Its fairness made our love afraid.
- Its rich‐wrought silver tracery
- Stood out against the deep bright sky
- Like good deeds ’gainst eternity.
- In the deep roof each separated beam
- Had its own garland—ivy, vine,—
- Giving to man the carver’s dream,
- In sight of men a certain sign—
- And all day long the workers plied.
- ‘The church shall finished be,’ we cried,
- ‘And consecrate by Easter‐tide.’
- Our church! It was so fair, so dear,
- So fit a church to praise God in!
- It had such show of carven gear,
- Such chiselled work, without, within!
- Such marble for the steps and floor,
- Such window‐jewels and such store
- Of gold and gems the altar bore!
- Each stone by loving hands was hewn,
- By loving hands each beam was sawn;
- The hammers made a merry tune
- In winter dusk and summer dawn.
- Love built the house, but gold had paid
- For that wherewith the house was made.
- ‘Would love had given all!’ we said.
- But poor in all save love were we,
- And he was poor in all save gold
- Who gave the gold. By usury
- Were gained his riches manifold.
- We knew that? If we knew, we thought
- ’Tis good if men do good in aught,
- And by good works may heaven be bought!
- At last the echo died in air
- Of the last stroke. The silence then
- Passed in to fill the church, left bare
- Of the loving voice of Christian men.
- The silence saddened all the sun,
- So gladly was our work begun.
- Now all that happy work was done.
- Did any voices in the night
- Call through those arches? Were there wings
- That swept between the pillars white—
- Wide pinions of unvisioned things?
- page: 55
- The priests who watched the relics heard
- Wing‐whispers—not of bat or bird—
- And moan of inarticulate word.
- Then sunlight, morning, and sweet air
- Adorned our church, and there were borne
- Great sheaves of boughs of blossoms fair
- To grace the consecration morn.
- Then round our church trooped knight and dame;
- Within, alone, the bishop came,
- And the twelve candles leaped to flame.
- Then round our church the bishop went
- With all his priests—a brave array.
- There was no sign nor portent sent
- As, glad at heart, he went his way,
- Sprinkling the holy water round
- Three times on walls and crowd and ground
- Within the empty churchyard’s bound.
- Then—but ye know the function’s scope
- At consecration—all the show
- Of torch and incense, stole and cope;
- And how the acolytes do go
- Before the bishop—how they bear
- The lighted tapers, flaming fair,
- Blown back by the sweet wavering air.
- The bishop, knocking at the door,
- The deacon answering from within,
- ‘Lift up your heads, ye gates, be sure
- The King of Glory shall come in’—
- The bishop passed in with the choir.
- Thank God for this—our soul’s desire,
- Our altar, meet for heaven’s fire!
- The bishop, kneeling in his place
- Where our bright windows made day dim,
- With all heaven’s glory in his face,
- Began the consecration hymn:
- ‘Veni,’ he sang, in clear strong tone.
- Then—on the instant—song was done,
- Its very echo scattered—gone!
- For, as the bishop’s voice rang clear,
- Another voice rang clearer still—
- A voice wherein the soul could hear
- The discord of unmeasured ill—
- And sudden breathless silence fell
- On all the church. And I wot well
- There are such silences in hell.
- Taper and torch died down—went out—
- And all our church grew dark and cold,
- And deathly odours crept about,
- And chill, as of the churchyard mould;
- And every flower drooped its head,
- And all the rose’s leaves were shed,
- And all the lilies dropped down dead.
- There, in the bishop’s chair, we saw—
- How can I tell you? Memories shrink
- To mix anew the cup of awe
- We shuddering mortals had to drink.
- What was it there? The shape that stood
- Before the altar and the rood—
- It was not human flesh and blood!
- A light more bright than any sun,
- A shade more dark than any night,
- A shape that human shape was none,
- A cloud, a sense of wingëd might,
- page: 57
- And, like an infernal trumpet sound,
- Rang through the church’s hush profound
- A voice. We listened horror‐bound.
- ‘Venio! Cease, cease to consecrate!
- Love built the church, but it is mine!
- ’Tis built of stone hewn out by hate,
- Cemented by man’s blood divine.
- Whence came the gold that paid for this?
- From pillage of the poor, I wis—
- That gold was mine, and mine this is!
- ‘Your King has cursed the usurer’s gold,
- He gives it to me for my fee!
- Your church is builded, but behold
- Your church is fair for me—for me!
- Who robs the poor to me is given;
- Impenitent and unforgiven,
- His church is built for hell, not heaven!’
- Then, as we gazed, the face grew clear,
- And all men stood as turned to stone;
- Each man beheld through dews of fear
- A face—his own—yet not his own;
- His own face, darkened, lost, debased,
- With hell’s own signet stamped and traced,
- And all the God in it effaced.
- A crash like thunder shook the walls,
- A flame like lightning shot them through:
- ‘Fly, fly before the judgment falls,
- And all these stones be fallen on you!’
- And as we fled we saw bright gleams
- Of fire leap out ’mid joists and beams.
- Our church! Oh, love—oh, hopes—oh, dreams!
- We stood without—a pallid throng—
- And as the flame leaped high and higher,
- Shrill winds we heard that rushed along
- And fanned the transports of the fire.
- The sky grew black; against the sky
- The blue and scarlet flames leaped high,
- And cries as of lost souls wailed by.
- The church in glowing vesture stood,
- The lead ran down as it were wax,
- The great stones cracked and burned like wood,
- The wood caught fire and flamed like flax:
- A horrid chequered light and shade,
- By smoke and flame alternate made,
- Upon men’s upturned faces played.
- Down crashed the walls. Our lovely spire,
- A blackened ruin, fell and lay.
- The very earth about caught fire,
- And flame‐tongues licked along the clay.
- The fire did neither stay nor spare
- Till the foundations were laid bare
- To the hot, sickened, smoke‐filled air.
- There in the sight of men it lay,
- Our church that we had made so fair!
- A heap of ashes white and gray,
- With sparks still gleaming here and there.
- The sun came out again, and shone
- On all our loving work undone—
- Our church destroyed, our labour gone!
- Gone? Is it gone? God knows it, no!
- The hands that builded built aright:
- The men who loved and laboured so,
- Their church is built in heaven’s height!
- In every stone a glittering gem,
- Gold in the gold Jerusalem—
- The church their love built waits for them.
1892.
