He must be one to whom a child
Comes with sweet laughter, reconciled
From tears because he passes by
Like a white cloud in yonder sky.
Women shall claim him for a friend,
Hail him as brother, gladly spend
The price of spikenard for his head,
Weep at his tomb when he is dead.
From seat of customs or the nets,
Workshop or plough or minarets,
Men will respond to his clear call
And in his battles proudly fall.
This Lord must be no shrouded form
Of God Incarnate, but the norm
Of manhood for an eager age—
Our prophet, poet, teacher, sage.
If sin be missing of the mark,
Sped was the arrow in the dark:
With light shed from that Brother's face,
Each well-aimed bolt shall find its place.
Not to dead yesterdays, but now
Belongs that wide and august brow
From whose vast mind a word shall be
Spoken to set thought-forces free—
Thought-forces fettered by the ban
Of some far-thundering Vatican,
Which from the age of stone to this
Cramped them by every artifice.
He will lift up a mighty hand
Against oppression; will demand
From kings and councils an account
Of stewardship—of the amount
Taken by them in turn for toil
That starves the tiller of the soil;
Will seek to know the reason why
The millions in their hunger cry.
His clear, calm eyes will pierce excuse
Of man defending his abuse
Of power; like a two-edge sword
Will be dividing of his word.