Clodesuida, a peaceful heart to you now.
I am well; I have seen our terrible gods come down
To beg the crumbs which fall from our sins, their only
Means of life. This evening you and I
Can walk under the trees and be ourselves
Together, knowing that this wild day has gone
For good. Where is the Briton? You still think
You must be afraid and see in him
The seed of a storm. But I have heard
Word of his God, and felt our lonely flesh
Welcome to creation. The fearful silence
Became the silence of great sympathy,
The quiet of God and man in the mutual word.
And never again need we sacrifice, on and on
And on, greedy of gods' goodwill
But always uncertain; for sacrifice
Can only perfectly be made by God
And sacrifice has so been made, by God
To God in the body of God with man,
On a tree set up at the four crossing roads
On earth, heaven, time, and eternity
Which meet upon that cross. I have heard this;
And while we listened, with our eyes half-shut
Facing the late sun, above the shoulder
Of the speaking man I saw the cross-road tree,
The love of God hung on the motes and beams
Of light. . . .
(From "Thor, With Angels," a play by Christopher Fry)