Thomas Hardy - The Church-Builder lyrics

I The church flings forth a battled shade Over the moon-blanched sward; The church; my gift; whereto I paid My all in hand and hoard: Lavished my gains With stintless pains To glorify the Lord. II I squared the broad foundations in Of ashlared masonry; I moulded mullions thick and thin, Hewed fillet and ogee; I circleted Each sculptured head With nimb and canopy. III I called in many a craftsmaster To fix emblazoned gla**, To figure Cross and Sepulchre On dossal, boss, and bra**. My gold all spent, My j**els went To gem the cups of Ma**. IV I borrowed deep to carve the screen And raise the ivoried Rood; I parted with my small demesne To make my owings good. Heir-looms unpriced I sacrificed, Until debt-free I stood. V So closed the task. "d**hless the Creed Here substanced!" said my soul: "I heard me bidden to this deed, And straight obeyed the call. Illume this fane, That not in vain I build it, Lord of all!" VI But, as it chanced me, then and there Did dire misfortunes burst; My home went waste for lack of care, My sons rebelled and curst; Till I confessed That aims the best Were looking like the worst. VII Enkindled by my votive work No burning faith I find; The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk, And give my toil no mind; From nod and wink I read they think That I am fool and blind. VIII My gift to God seems futile, quite; The world moves as erstwhile; And powerful wrong on feeble right Tramples in olden style. My faith burns down, I see no crown; But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile. IX So now, the remedy? Yea, this: I gently swing the door Here, of my fane—no soul to wis - And cross the patterned floor To the rood-screen That stands between The nave and inner chore. X The rich red windows dim the moon, But little light need I; I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn From woods of rarest dye; Then from below My garment, so, I draw this cord, and tie XI One end thereof around the beam Midway 'twixt Cross and truss: I noose the nethermost extreme, And in ten seconds thus I journey hence - To that land whence No rumour reaches us. XII Well: Here at morn they'll light on one Dangling in mockery Of what he spent his substance on Blindly and uselessly! . . . "He might," they'll say, "Have built, some way. A cheaper gallows-tree!"