The Unbidden Christ

And will they cast the altars down,

Scatter the chalice, crush the bread?

In field, in village, and in town

He hides an unregarded head;

Waits in the corn-lands far and near,

Bright in His sun, dark in His frost,

Sweet in the vine, ripe in the ear--

Lonely unconsecrated Host.

In ambush at the merry board

The Victim lurks unsacrificed;

The mill conceals the harvest's Lord,

The wine-press holds the unbidden Christ.