Out of the ground I rose; the seed seemed dead,
But lo! a slim green arm pushed through the sod,
And by and by before my maker, God,
I stood full ripe. A voice cried: "Give us bread."
The wind of God went by; I bowed my head,
And one approached who held a curved knife,
And for the life of men he took my life,
And ever since by me are millions fed.
And then God spake these words: "O blessed weed,
The lowly sister of the lily proud,
Be thou my chosen messenger to shroud
The mystery of my Son, the Woman's Seed.
Thou dreadest not the sacrificial knife:
Be thou to dying men the Bread of Life.