| DARKNESS: the rain sluiced down; the mire was deep; | |
| It was past twelve on a mid-winter night, | |
| When peaceful folk in beds lay snug asleep; | |
| There, with much work to do before the light, | |
| We lugged our clay-sucked boots as best we might | 5 |
| Along the trench; sometimes a bullet sang, | |
| And droning shells burst with a hollow bang; | |
| We were soaked, chilled and wretched, every one; | |
| Darkness; the distant wink of a huge gun. | |
| |
| I turned in the black ditch, loathing the storm; | 10 |
| A rocket fizzed and burned with blanching flare, | |
| And lit the face of what had been a form | |
| Floundering in mirk. He stood before me there; | |
| I say that He was Christ; stiff in the glare, | |
| And leaning forward from His burdening task, | 15 |
| Both arms supporting it; His eyes on mine | |
| Stared from the woeful head that seemed a mask | |
| Of mortal pain in Hell’s unholy shine. | |
| |
| No thorny crown, only a woollen cap | |
| He wore—an English soldier, white and strong, | 20 |
| Who loved his time like any simple chap, | |
| Good days of work and sport and homely song; | |
| Now he has learned that nights are very long, | |
| And dawn a watching of the windowed sky. | |
| But to the end, unjudging, he’ll endure | 25 |
| Horror and pain, not uncontent to die | |
| That Lancaster on Lune may stand secure. | |
| |
| He faced me, reeling in his weariness, | |
| Shouldering his load of planks, so hard to bear. | |
| I say that He was Christ, who wrought to bless | 30 |
| All groping things with freedom bright as air, | |
| And with His mercy washed and made them fair. | |
| Then the flame sank, and all grew black as pitch, | |
| While we began to struggle along the ditch; | |
| And someone flung his burden in the muck, | 35 |
| Mumbling: ‘O Christ Almighty, now I’m stuck!’ | |
