(hat tip to an old college friend)

“Sirs, I am but a nameless man,

A rhymester without home,

Yet since I come of the Wessex clay

And carry the cross of Rome,

“I will even answer the mighty earl

That asked of Wessex men

Why they be meek and monkish folk,

And bow to the White Lord’s broken yoke;

What sign have we save blood and smoke?

Here is my answer then.

“That on you is fallen the shadow,

And not upon the Name;

That though we scatter and though we fly,

And you hang over us like the sky,

You are more tired of victory,

Than we are tired of shame.

“That though you hunt the Christian man

Like a hare on the hill-side,

The hare has still more heart to run

Than you have heart to ride.

“That though all lances split on you,

All swords be heaved in vain,

We have more lust again to lose

Than you to win again.”

-Chesterton, from The Ballad of the White Horse