The Fugitive
“Nous avons chassť ce Jesus-Christ.”—French Publicist
Yes, from the ingrate heart, the street
Of garrulous tongue, the warm retreat
   Within the village and the town;
   Not from the lands where ripen brown
A thousand thousand hills of wheat;
Not from the long Burgundian line,
The Southward, sunward range of vine.
   Hunted, He never will escape
   The flesh, the blood, the sheaf, the grape,
That feed His man—the bread, the wine.

Webpage © 2001 ELC
Lane Core Jr. (
Created April 9, 2001; not revised.