A Wayside Shrine

O, Chryste, you have hung

For centuries above this Plain,

In sorrow carved by one

Who felt your pain,

And bore your cross,

And knew your sorrow for his own!

Among the grain

That he had sown

His heart-blood flowered

Poppies red:

And then he knew

The thorns that pressed

Upon your head,

And carved your features as his own!

—Victoria Janda

Star Hunger, 1942