The Mystery of the Son of Man by Michael Wood

Lord God of Glory, Pow'r of Perfect Light, / Look on Thy little children of the wild, / In whose frail souls the Son of Man is born / Thine is the pow'r of pain and anguish, Lord, / Thine is the chrysm of the agony, / The bitter wisdom born within the soul / That knows the sorrow of sin's piteous load. / Father in Heaven, blessed be the hour / When in the beast-soul rises the sad voice / Of human shame, crying: "I will arise, / And seek my Father's feet, and mourn my sin. " / Blessed the hour when the dread scourge of pain / Is gladly borne by some poor tortur'd soul, / Because it sees its foulness before Thee / By the white light of Christ, Who dwells within / The outrag'd temple of humanity.

There was wrath and distress in the House of the Cold Strand by reason of the sin of Brother Gorlois. He was the child of the Holy House, taken into the pious nurture of the brethren, from the dead breast of his murdered mother, a heathen woman, found by Brother Pacificus lying dead in the undergrowth of the great forest nigh the House of the Cold Strand. The pious company of Christian monks, who had built their house of prayer in that land, baptised the babe, and reared him by the precepts of Solomon, by the rule of their House, and by the wisdom which flowed from their hearts. And when the Brother Gorlois was twelve years old he entered his noviciate, and when he was fifteen he took upon him the vows of a monk, namely, the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. He had little wit, and was not studious; nor was he called to the way of contemplation, but he was strong, and waxed mighty of muscle. As he grew to manhood the good gift of comeliness was bestowed upon him by the Hand of God, and the thick crisp waves of his curly yellow hair rose up like billows around his head.