Christ, here’s a thorn
More poison-fanged than any that you knew:
On the north side of our churchyard it grew,
Where lie the suicides and babes chance-born.
Christ, here are nails,
Once driven in, will never lose their hold:
Forged at Krupp’s, Creusot’s, Vickers’, and tipped with gold
Pen-nibs that signed the Treaty of Versailles.
Christ, here’s a sharp
Spear, can wound deeper than all other spears:
In baths of human blood and human tears
Tempered, and whetted on the human heart.