Up to the thirteenth section it is an argument between the speaker, who is possessed of much faith but has a distinct tendency to pessimism, and another, who has a sceptical but also a hopeful turn of mind, respecting Christianity, its credibility, and how its doctrines fit human nature and affect the conduct of life.  After keen discussion the argument returns to the lament, common to both disputants:  how very hard it is to be, practically, a Christian.  The speaker then relates, on account of its bearing on the discussion, an experience (or vision, as he leaves us free to imagine) which once came to him.  Three years before, on an Easter-Eve, he was crossing the common where stood the chapel referred to by their friend (the poem thus, and thus only, links on to Christmas-Eve.) As he walked along, musingly, he asked himself what the Faith really was to him; what would be his fate, for instance, if he fell dead that moment?  And he said to himself, jestingly enough, why should not the judgment-day dawn now, on Easter-morn?

                         “And as I said
      This nonsense, throwing back my head
      With light complacent laugh, I found
      Suddenly all the midnight round
      One fire.  The dome of heaven had stood
      As made up of a multitude
      Of handbreadth cloudlets, one vast rack
      Of ripples infinite and black,
      From sky to sky.  Sudden there went,
      Like horror and astonishment,
      A fierce vindictive scribble of red
      Quick flame across, as if one said
      (The angry scribe of Judgment) ’There—­
      Burn it!’ And straight I was aware
      That the whole ribwork round, minute
      Cloud touching cloud beyond compute,
      Was tinted, each with its own spot
      Of burning at the core, till clot
      Jammed against clot, and spilt its fire
      Over all heaven, which ’gan suspire
      As fanned to measure equable,—­
      Just so great conflagrations kill
      Night overhead, and rise and sink,
      Reflected.  Now the fire would shrink
      And wither off the blasted face
      Of heaven, and I distinct might trace
      The sharp black ridgy outlines left
      Unburned like network—­then, each cleft
      The fire had been sucked back into,
      Regorged, and out its surging flew
      Furiously, and night writhed inflamed,
      Till, tolerating to be tamed
      No longer, certain rays world-wide
      Shot downwardly.  On every side,
      Caught past escape, the earth was lit;
      As if a dragon’s nostril split
      And all his famished ire o’erflowed;
      Then as he winced at his lord’s goad,
      Back he inhaled:  whereat I found
      The clouds into vast pillars bound,
      Based on the corners of the earth
      Propping the skies at top:  a dearth
      Of fire i’ the violet intervals,
      Leaving exposed the utmost walls
      Of time, about to tumble in
      And end the world.”