A sonnet for the Feast of Corpus Christi

Aloft, upon the cruel and splinter’d height,
Veil’d not before the people’s awe-struck gaze,
Evoking taunts and jeers to their delight,
Vain seem His words of final Godly praise.
Eschewing not the labyrinthine path
Replete with sin-fill’d blows and bitt’rest gall
Unleash’d, He trod upon the stones of wrath
Mired in the filth of Adam’s primal fall.
Come now, O petty Man! Shalt thou then clutch
Or carry Him on high from street to street?
Reach out with unclean hands to give thy touch,
Parading Him as ancient scenes repeat!
Upon each altar, spread through ev’ry land–
So doth He give Himself into our hand.
AVE VERUM CORPUSĀ 

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