Always throughout the years I saw the Master
Forgiving, with compassion on His face;
But now I see, swift-flashing through disaster,
The javelins of anger cleave His grace.
Within His hand the very whip is lashing
He used to drive the money-changers out.
He hears the clink of coins within the clashing
Of swords that make the world a crimson rout.
Would that today we might retell the story--
The tables overturned, the changers fled;
Too many now defile the Temple's glory,
And God rebukes us for our martyred dead.
He stands majestic, as He is divine,
And bids us cleanse His desecrated shrine.
Second in MFCP Clinic Poems, Fall 1951