The Crucifix Listen to poem read by author Dale Hobson. (0:38) In your hall of honeyed wood and morning light mellowed by leaded saints, all seems in order, as it should, except the votive flame in beating play and you upon the spar in disarray. I look upon what I have made, (vain to deny my hasty chop), see the works of love let rot, and rue. Starving eyes in fleshy face--to grope from need to hope of grace-- did something like move you? © Dale R. Hobson. All rights reserved.