Classic Poem

Lay aside your pen for a moment,
And listen, my dear to me,
While I tell you a strange, sweet story,
The sweetest that ever could be.
And perhaps, the theme will inspire you
And perhaps you will catch the strain
Of sweetness, and maybe you'll write it
When you take up your pen again.

So, there in the evening twilight,
I gladly laid down my pen
And listened to hear her story,
As sweet to me now, as then.
It was just at the close of daylight,
When shadows begin to unfold,
I remember the time so clearly,
And this was the story she told,—

Last night, my dear, in dreamland,
I sat in a princely hall,
And its arches were solid marble,
Its pillars stately and tall,
I saw before me an altar,
Exquisitely wrought in gold,
And the white-robed priest behind it,
Was saying, my people behold,—

To-day is the great passover,
Of thanks and of sacrifice,
Give ye of your best and purest,
The least of these will suffice.
Come then with sincerest devotion,
Bring all that ye can afford,
Oh, who will be first to offer
Thanksgiving and praise to the Lord?

Down the aisle of the princely dwelling,
Two maidens in spotless white,
Came bearing rich treasures of silver,
Their faces beaming with light.
And, ascending the steps to the altar,
They offered their gifts to the Lord,
They had brought Him the best and the purest.
The richest each one could afford.

Just behind them in humble submission,
A woman came, weary and worn,
With feeble, faltering, foot-steps,
With garments so faded and torn,
In her hand she was tenderly bearing,
Two tiny pieces of bread,
And, ascending the steps to the altar,
She bowed, and tremblingly said,—

“Not a morsel of food have I tasted,
Since yesterday's early dawn,
But I've waited, Oh, earnestly waited,
For the coming of this bright morn,
This is all that I have to offer,
This simple gift to the Lord,
It's the best that I have and the purest.
The richest that I can afford.”

And the white-robed priest said softly,
“Your gift will indeed suffice,
In truth you have kept the passover,
Of thanks and sacrifice.”
And then, as the priest was speaking,
The scene faded slowly away,
And the princely hall had vanished.
I awoke to find it was day.

“So, my dear I have told the story,
And I hope you have caught the strain,
Of sweetness,—and now I leave you,
Good-night, till we meet again.”
And there in the evening twilight,
I gladly took up my pen,
And I wrote this strange, sweet story,
As sweet to me now, as then.