Christ, here’s a thorn

More poison-fanged than any that you knew:

On the north side of our churchyard it grew,

Where lie the suicides and babes chance-born.

Christ, here are nails,

Once driven in, will never lose their hold:

Forged at Krupp’s, Creusot’s, Vickers’, and tipped with gold

Pen-nibs that signed the Treaty of Versailles.

Christ, here’s a sharp

Spear, can wound deeper than all other spears:

In baths of human blood and human tears

Tempered, and whetted on the human heart.