THE MASTER He was hungry:
-Shall we not dine,- said He,
-On the good fruit amongst the leaves
Of this delightful tree?-
But oh! the fig-tree bore no fruit.
-Wither,- He bade it, -to the root,
For thus deceiving me.-

The Master He was hungry.
He plucked the grains so red
Of wheat that grew beside the way,
And He was bravely fed.
-For this,- He said, -I guerdon thee,
Through all the years, a type to be
Of Christ, the Living Bread.-


The Master He was thirsty.
He raised His hand on high,
And crushed the good red grapes that grew
The nearest to the sky.
-And as thou gavest me drink of thine,
So must I pour my blood, O Vine,
When I for man shall die.-


The Master He was passing
From men He held so dear.
The feast with bread and wine was made;
The Friday Cross was near.
-Droop not!- He spoke, and blessed their food:
-The broken Body and the Blood
Sustain you year by year.-
And corn and wine thenceforth have stood
His symbols everywhere.