A blithe infant, lapt in careless joy,
sports with a woollen lion. If the toy
should come to life, the child so direly crost
faced with this actuality were lost...
Leave us our toys, then; happier we shall stay
while they remain but toys, and we can play
with them and do with them as suits us best.
Reality would add to our unrest...
We want no living Christ, whose Truth intense
pretends to no belief in our pretense,
and flashing on all folly and deceit,
would blast our world to ashes at our feet...
We want no more of Him than is displayed
in the dead plaything our own hands have made
to lull our fears and comfort us in loss:
a wooden Christ upon a wooden cross.