And will they cast the altars down, 
  Scatter the chalice, crush the bread? 
In field, in village, and in town 
  He hides an unregarded head;

Waits in the corn-lands far and near, 
  Bright in His sun, dark in His frost, 
Sweet in the vine, ripe in the ear-- 
  Lonely unconsecrated Host.

In ambush at the merry board 
  The Victim lurks unsacrificed; 
The mill conceals the harvest's Lord, 
  The wine-press holds the unbidden Christ.