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He had for years been denuding himself of facts;
He lived in the heart of the city, but he eluded
The present as easily as he pushed back the past,
And the future meant for him
Only the monumental painting he had projected.
He had triumphed over his own intellect, and had
Carried himself back to the state of Adam.


One day I visited him and found
Him hard at work with his brushes;
He no longer conversed with one,
So he grunted me greeting not stopping his labour.


I was interested just then in the Saviour,
His quotidian majesty of poise and sublime sureness of pose;
And I walked back and forth in the studio,
Reviewing enthusiastically
The superb efficiency of the Man of Galilee.
I forgot for an instant how close to the first womb
My friend had returned, and suddenly burst forth:
"Was not Jesus Christ the bigger man because
After all He knew He was a faker?"
And the painter turned, annoyed at my interrupting him;
"But who was Jesus Christ?"


His picture is a masterpiece--
It is called "Humanity."