I The straggled soldier halted -- stared at Him -- Then clumsily dumped down upon his knees, Gasping "O blessed crucifix, I'm beat !" And Christ, still sentried by the seraphim, Near the front-line, between two splintered trees, Spoke him: "My son, behold these hands and feet." The soldier eyed him upward, limb by limb, Paused at the Face, then muttered, "Wounds like these Would shift a bloke to Blighty just a treat !" Christ, gazing downward, grieving and ungrim, Whispered, "I made for you the mysteries, Beyond all battles moves the Paraclete." II The soldier chucked his rifle in the dust, And slipped his pack, and wiped his neck, and said -- "O Christ Almighty, stop this bleeding fight !" Above that hill the sky was stained like rust With smoke. In sullen daybreak flaring red The guns were thundering bombardment's blight. The soldier cried, "I was born full of lust, With hunger, thirst,