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.

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