the Crucified, Christ the Carpenter,
    Christ the Leader of Workingmen, the Agitator, the Disturber,
    Christ the Labor-organizer, Christ the Archetypal Socialist,
    Friend of the dwellers in the pits of Life, Consoler of earth’s
        exploited,
    Who once with the lash scourged from the Temple the unclean
        graft-brood of usurers. 
    And the rotund Bishop’s words were as the crackling of dry thorns
    Under a pot, bubbling without use in the desert of dreary
        platitudes. 
    The story he told was spiced and garnished with profane words,
    Whereat the Leaders laughed in their cups, making great show of
        merriment,
    So that the banquet-hall rang, and wine was spilt on the linen. 
    Wine as red as blood—­the blood of the shattered miner,
    Blood of the boy in the rifle-pits, blood of the coughing
        child-slave,
    Blood of the mangled trainman, blood that the Carpenter shed.

    And still I watched the Socialist.  Sober, judicial, observant
    And full of greater wisdom he was than to laugh with the tipsy
        Leaders. 
    His eyes were fixed on the Bishop, vice-regent of God upon earth. 
    And as I watched the Socialist, the unmoved, the contemplative one,
    He thoughtfully took his pencil, he took the fine and large card
    Whereon the names of the rich foods and all the costly wines were
        printed,
    And made a few notes of the feast, notes of the Bishop’s speech,
    Notes to remind him to search the slums for the great, God-given
        prosperity,
    Which all the Judges, Lawmakers, Captains and Leaders knew to be
        “our” portion;
    Notes of the flowers, the wine, the lights, the music, the splendor,
    Notes of the Leaders’ oratory, notes of the Bishop’s deep-voiced
        unctiousness,
    Notes he made; and as I looked at the notes he was carefully
        writing,
    The words ran red like wine and blood, they blazed like the blazing
        lights! 
    Words they were of blood and fire, that spread, that filled the
        banquet-hall. 
    Words of old, I read them—­“MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSHIN!—­
    Weighed in the Balance you are, ye Leaders respected of men,
    You Statesmen, Lawmakers, Judges, Captains, Bishops, vice-regents of
        God! 
    Weighed and tried and found wanting.  Give way, now, to what shall
        come after! 
    Make ye way for the Men who shall do what ye have but neglected and
        shirked! 
    Make ye way for a Time which hath more than Power and Greed for its
        watchwords! 
    Soon your day shall decline forever, your sun shall sink and shall
        vanish. 
    Then from the Cellars of Life the darkness-dwellers shall issue,
    Greeting another daunt which shall have more than pain for its
        portion. 
    Then no more shall the humble, the lowly, the friends of the
        Nazarene Carpenter
    Be starved, be mangled for gold, be crucified, slaughtered, bled. 
    Make ye way!...Make ye way!...”