POETRY.

HE PASSETH BY.

CHRIST Jesus Who lived long ago

Far from streets where we nien go,' The fiercest and the tenderest was' Of any bOrn. He loved the grass

And all tiny things that creep

In that little forest to hide and sleep.

He worked with sailors on their ships,

And stilled for-them the storm. With whips

He drOve from church those cruel old Fat priests, whose mildewed words and cold Froze up like icicles and killed The happy common life God willed Should bubble up in man and woman.

Christ'S wise love it was so human, He saved a harlot they would stone

And showed that her sin was their own.

And " Sin no more," He said to all.

Sinless Himself, He came to call Sot, harlot, murderer, and thief

Into IBS fold. Their tears'Of grief, .

Were pearls upon the-crown that He Wore upon earth invisibly; He died, and rose—and is forgotten.

And now' the world hangs like a'rotton • Apple upon the Tree of Life.

For men are steeped in deadly strife, And, weak with hate, and-blind with pride, On their own cruelty crucified.

F. W. HARVEY.