A blithe infant, lapped in careless joy
sports with a woolen lion. If the toy
should come to life, the child, so direly crossed,
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 His 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 plastic Christ upon a plastic cross.