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|In Portugal, 1912|
And will they cast the altars down, |
Scatter the chalice, crush the bread?
In field, in village, and in town
He hides an unregarded head;
Waits in the corn-lands far and near, |
Bright in His sun, dark in His frost,
Sweet in the vine, ripe in the ear
Lonely unconsecrated Host.
In ambush at the merry board |
The Victim lurks unsacrificed;
The mill conceals the harvest’s Lord,
The wine-press holds the unbidden Christ.
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Lane Core Jr. (email@example.com)
Created April 9, 2001; not revised.