Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.
Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.
The chief imagination of Christendom, Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself That he has made that hollow face of his More plain to the mind's eye than any face But that of Christ.
When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay; Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm and side, The vinegar-heavy sponge, the flowers by Kedron stream.
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