A learned group of dons will gloat
At a fool's last word in a high priest's throat.
But the song of God in a Carpenter's saw
Could never hold wise men in awe.
And whenever Christ, the bard, would sing
They lost His truth in a hammer's ring.
The wilderness called with her silent lure:
"O poet of thoughtless Nazareth
Come out to me with your starry breath."
And His white reed yearned for the moon-chilled sands
Where the frayed flowers cure
With their gypsy hands.
But He turned His face
From the silent place,
With the comrade stars above,
As we all have done,
As we all have done
From a maid we dare not love.
And the silent desert called again:
"O poet of thoughtless Nazareth,
Come out to me with your fragrant breath,
And walk with me in the moon's white rain."
But a blind man's stick on a hollow stone,
As it slowly tapped through a distant city,
And a broken woman's hopeless moan
Called out to Him with a deeper tone;
And the heart of the Lord was pity.
And back to the town the poet came,
And took His feet to the temple's hall,
And heard the boast of a man named Saul;
And He heard Saul mock,
In a fiery tongue,
The sweetest songs which His heart had sung.
But Jesus of Nazareth, then and there,
Could scarce forbear
From a fond embrace,
Knowing the beauty the man should wear
At another time, in another place.
The critics were many in Jesus' day;
And His songs were scorned by the caustic pen.
He did not write in the Grecian way;
And He knew not how to preach or pray
In a way approved of men.
His themes were bad by the Roman chart,
And His metres all were wrong;
For all of the High Priests had their art,
And He had only His song.
Now few of the people cared to hear
The Poet blow on His starry reeds;
So He took His gift from the soul's high sphere—
The miracle song that few would hear—
And lowered His power,
In a hopeless hour,
And made men cower
At His miracle deeds.
A miracle deed is a simple thing
To a miracle song or a miracle truth.
Yet they marvelled not that a song could bring
To the veins of Time the world's lost youth.
And two were gathered and sometimes three
To hear the poet of Galilee.
But the mob swept down like leaves in a storm
When they heard the miracle man would perform.
And the lame men walked and the blind men saw;
And the dead men breathed by a strange, new law.
But they were few to the far-flung throng
Who saw and breathed through the poet's song.
When they sat and fed on the fish and bread
Five thousand men was an easy count;
And the deed was done;
But to-morrow's sun
Will still bring throngs to the Pulpit-Mount.
And I am sure that John or Mary
Cared not a whit when He walked the sea.
But I am sure that they loved to tarry
And hear the Poet of Galilee.
And of the throng that around Him pressed
'Twas John and Mary that He loved best.
And when the Poet sat down, to choose
The men to take to the world His news,
He sought no men who had held their dishes
To catch His gift of the loaves and fishes.
But He chose them out of the purer throngs
Who came to hear His miracle songs.