On his swift way the little herald sped,
Like bird upon the wing,
And left the lean, brown beggar—world-forgot—
Waiting for Israel's King.
But when the dust came whirling to his feet—
When the mad throng drew near—
Blind Bartimeus rose, and from his lips
A cry rang loud and clear—
The cry of all the ages, of each soul
In sad captivity;
The endless cry from depths of bitter woe—
"Have mercy upon me!"
What though the wild oncoming multitude
Jested and bade him cease;
What though the Scribes and mighty Pharisees
Told him to keep his peace;
What though his heart grew faint, and all the strength
Slipped from each trembling limb—
The One of all the earth his soul desired
Stood still—and spoke to him.
Then silence fell, while the upheaving throng,
As sea-waves backward curled,
Left a great path, and down the path there shone
The Light of all the world.
The Light from whose mysterious golden depths
The Sun rose in his might—
The light from whose white, hidden fires were lit
The torches of the night;
The Light that shining on a thing of clay
Giveth it Life and Will:
The Light that with an unknown power can blast
And bid all life be still;
The Light that calls a ray of its own light
A man's undying soul—
The Light that lifts the broken lives of earth,
Touches and makes them whole.
Up towards the Radiance Bartimeus went,
Alone, and poor, and blind—
Feeling his way, if haply it led on
To One he fain would find.