"Nous avons chassé ce Jésus-Christ."⁠

YES, from the ingrate heart, the street
Of garrulous tongue, the warm retreat
⁠Within the village and the town;
⁠Not from the lands where ripen brown
A thousand thousand hills of wheat;

Not from the long Burgundian line,
The Southward, sunward range of vine.
⁠Hunted, He never will escape
⁠The flesh, the blood, the sheaf, the grape,
That feed His man—the bread the wine.