The Pastor turned with wondering eyes;
But when he saw the dusky brow,
He answered, with a quick surprise,
“Ho! bold intruder! Who art thou?
The master’s table is not free
To give the low-born servant place—
Such privilege can only be
For his accepted sons of grace.”
Upon the dusky brow there glowed
A flush that was not wrath nor pride,
As forward he majestic strode,
And stood close by the altar-side.
The broken bread his left hand spurned
With sudden movement to the floor,
While with his right he quickly turned
The consecrated chalice o’er.
One instant, for the tempest-cloud
To gather on each pallid face.
And then uprose the angry crowd
To thrust him from the sacred place.
With conscious might he raised his hand—
A being of resistless will—
And uttered the sublime command
That hushed the tempest—“Peace, be still!”
The waves of wrath and human pride
Rolled back, without the power to harm,
The angry murmurs surged and died,
And lo! there was a breathless calm.
The dusky brow to dazzling white
Had in one fleeting instant turned,
And round his head a halo bright
Of heaven’s resplendent glory burned.
“I do reject,” he calmly said,
“These outward forms—this bread, this wine:
Lo! at my table all are fed,
Made welcome by a love divine.
The high, the low, the rich, the poor,
The black, the white, the bond, the free,
The sinful soul, the heart impure—
Forbid them not to come to me.
“Too long, too long have faithless creeds
Shut out the sunshine from above,
While human hearts, with human needs,
Have perished from the lack of love.
O, break for them truth’s living bread;
Let love, like wine, unhindered flow;
Thus would I have the hungry fed,
And let these outward emblems go.”
Then from the altar-side there rose
A cloud with matchless glory bright,
As when, at evening’s calm repose,
The sun withdraws his radiant light.
But though so far removed from all,
He seemed in presence to depart,
The seed of living truth let fall
Took root in many a thoughtful heart.
THE GOOD TIME NOW.
The world is strong with a mighty hope
Of a good time yet to be,
And carefully casts the horoscope
Of her future destiny;
And poet, and prophet, and priest, and sage,
Are watching, with anxious eyes,
To see the light of that promised age
On the waiting world arise.
O, weary and long seems that time to some,
Who under Life’s burdens bow,
For while they wait for that time to come,
They forget ’tis a good time now.