Though with the boys of Nazareth
He never joined in mirth,
Yet young and old felt strangely drawn
Towards His modest worth;
E’en though that quiet, wondrous Child,
Had never laughed nor even smiled.*
For even then prophetic rose
Before His spirit’s gaze
The cruel Cross, the griefs reserved
For manhood’s coming days,
And, worse than all, the countless host
That, spite His pangs, might yet be lost.
Silent and calm, He held His way
From morn till evening still;
His thoughts intent on working out
His Mighty Father’s will;
While Heaven bent in ecstasy,
O’er the Boy-God of Galilee.
* An old tradition avers that our Saviour was never seen to laugh during His mortal life.
[OUR SAVIOUR AND THE SAMARITAN WOMAN AT THE WELL.]
Close beside the crystal waters of Jacob’s far-famed well,
Whose dewy coolness gratefully upon the parched air fell,
Reflecting back the bright hot heavens within its waveless breast,
Jesus, foot-sore and weary, had sat Him down to rest.
Alone was He—His followers had gone to Sichar near,
Whose roofs and spires rose sharply against the heavens clear,
For food which Nature craveth, whate’er each hope or care,
And which, though Lord of Nature, He disdained not to share.
While thus He calmly waited, came a woman to the well,
With water vase poised gracefully, and step that lightly fell,
One of Samaria’s daughters, most fair, alas! but frail,
Her dark locks bound with flowers instead of modest, shelt’ring veil.
No thought of scornful anger within His bosom burned,
Nor, with abhorrent gesture, His face from her He turned;
But as His gaze of purity dwelt on her, searching, meek,
Her bright eyes fell, and blushes hot burned on her brow and cheek.
He told her with a gentleness, by God-like pity nursed,
Of wond’rous living fountains at which to slake her thirst;
That those whose lips, thrice blessed, should a draught from them obtain,
Despite earth’s toils and troubles, would ne’er know thirst again.