He raised his eyes within his cell—O wonder!
There stood a visitor; thorn-crowned was He,
And a sweet voice the silence rent asunder:
“I scorn no work that’s done for love of me.”
And round the walls the paintings shone resplendent
With lights and colors to this world unknown,
A perfect beauty, and a hue transcendent,
That never yet on mortal canvas shone.
There is a meaning in this strange old story;
Let none dare judge his brother’s worth or need;