Classic Poem

Why do I falter, now my hour has come:
Can one man's choice mean either this or that?
I grow presumptuous 'Twas not God who called!
The Prophets now are coffined with the Past;
They walk no more among us as of yore
In those great days when God abode with men;
His voice is silent, lo these centuries.

He calls no more across the empty years,
The wrangling years so filled with clamoring,
The clink of barter, and men's littleness
Pushing and pulling at the Infinite
As if 'twere linen in a mercer's shop
And they could measure with a three-foot rod
Of disputation, what is measureless
No wonder He is silent, while men shout.

And yet there was a time when men believed
That they could find Him in the burning bush,
Or hear Him in the watches of the night
Waking the sleeper, or mingle in the cloud
With His great presence on Mount Sinai.
He walked within the Garden of the World
Startling the guilty silence with His voice;
He couched within the ark of shittim wood;
The stone was graven at His finger-tip
And men could read in Nature His decrees.
He strode before them in a cloud by day,
He fed them on the manna of His love,
The desert gushed in fountains at His touch,
And in the mystery and wonder of the night
He wrestled limb to limb with human kind.

Oh, to have felt the swelling thews of God,
The crushing anguish of His vast embrace,
To strain against His mighty-heaving chest,
And feel strength draining from one drop by drop,
One's shoulders nearing inch by inch his doom,
And still to struggle, knowing that He asks
No tame and feeble-kneed antagonist
Who cringes fawning, but He rather loves
That soul who questions, doubts, and scorns to yield
Without one desperate trial of his strength
Before he smiles and whispers, “I am thrown.”

Those were the days when Prophets walked with God,
And found Him near them in the wilderness
When they went out to meet Him face to face,—
God sends no ravens to Elijahs now.

And though perhaps it was not God who called
When John had hailed me with his prophecy,—
And those mad eyes that shine upon me still,
And his great body white and beautiful,—
Yet was it something; for I felt a stir
That ripened all my being suddenly,
As if a sunbeam pierced a lily's heart

And loosed the molten fragrances that bound
Her aching bosom, till it burst in bloom
And glowed beneath the quivering lips of day.
It seemed my soul was somehow strangely new,
As if, across the bending heads of wheat
Trembling between their milky-kerneled youth
And mellow richness of maturity,
In that expectant moment, came a breath
Warm from the very sun-kissed cheeks of June,
And when the wind had passed the grain was set.

So, when John touched me, all at once my soul
Trembled to feel it, and the voice of God
Burst with the glory of magnificence,
Drowning my senses, till I rather felt
The thunder of His presence than I heard.

But now within the wilderness I wait,
Alone, and far from Jordan's crowded bank.
The flame that warmed me, now has sunk to ash,
And I am hungry, strengthless, and forgot.
The moon has grown, and waned, and grown again,
And still I wrestle with God's purposes,
Weaker and ever weaker; and I fear
The scuttling shadows lurking by the rocks,
Where fiery eyes creep nearer every night,
Until I almost hear their eagerness
Sniffing, and wrinkling up their silken lips
Over the gleaming of their cruel teeth.
The desert creatures throng me hungrily,
Perhaps to-night they banquet,—let them come.

Better the quick leap and the rending fangs,
The momentary anguish warm with blood,
The merciful swift death that wild things deal,
Than to be torn upon the breakers of the world,
Impaled with scornful shafts of mocking men,
Each truth we die for jeered and spit upon,
Naked and beaten, stoned from house to house,
Scourged by those hands that we have tried to clasp,
Cursed by those lips that we once hoped to kiss.

One way is open,—join the common crowd,
Perhaps more merciful in deed than they
And thinking one's own thoughts, but quietly;
Run with the herd in body, but reserve
The right to enter in one's privacy
A secret chamber where the spirit dwells
Apart from all appearance, unrebuked:
No need is there to throw oneself on death
When life is all before one, rich in love.

And who can live life more intense than I?
The Galilean hills are full of friends,
Timid and slender wild things cross my path
And stop to eye me, fearlessly and tame,
Soft, furry things that slumber in my breast,
I know where every sparrow lays her young
Along the plastered walls of Nazareth;
The earliest lily lifts for me her cup
And fills it with a draught of morning-dew.
Above me when I drift on Galilee
The quiet stars shine out like brother souls,
And through the tattered sail the wind sifts down,
Brushing my cheeks with fragrance of the night
And whispering me to silence and to sleep.

But not alone with this great comradeship
Is my whole being filled as if with wine.
The children run to meet me in the street,
And cling about me till I lift them up
Where they can stretch their tiny chubby hands
Along my cheeks, and laugh to see the eyes
That mirror back a little laughing face.
And I have known old men the fever racked
Grow calm and quiet when I hold their hands
Or brush away the anguish from their brows,
Until I tremble with a tenderness
That seems to soothe them till they fall asleep
Clasping my strong cool hands upon their breasts;
I cannot help but love them slumbering,
Such strangely sweet and pitiful old men!

I know not why it is; 'twas ever thus;
All faces turn to follow when I move.
It may be that I am so young and strong,
So fresh with all the tang of wind and sea,
So glowing with the sweetness of the sun
That seems like a great brother on the hills
When I have climbed the sandy, shrub-clad slopes,
Above the drowsy streets of Nazareth,
That tired women, flushed with household tasks
And bent with aching shoulders grinding corn,
Feel, when I enter at their low-beamed door,
As I do when the cooling twilight breeze
Warns me to lay my adz and maul aside,
And roam beyond the little narrow town
Far out upon the hills alone with God.
For I have seen such women lift their eyes
When I looked in upon them at their work,
And all the toil-worn faces softened, till
They seemed transfigured with a sudden peace
As if they caught a vision of God's love:
'Tis wonderful, and leaves me half afraid,
So glad I am that I can make them smile.

As sweet to me as children's clinging hands,
Old men that slumber, or tired women's eyes,
And strong as the deep swell and surge of sea
That lifts a weary swimmer to the shore,
The love of young men, reverence of friends,
And eloquence of eyes that answer mine
When all the rest is silence,—those who work
Beside me day by day at bench or wall,
Strong backs and sturdy limbs that lift and strain
Until the beam is swung into its place
And swift, sure blows have driven it safely home;
My brother Joses with his merry face,
And all the workers at my father's trade.

Strength answers strength, at work or on the shore
Leaping to breast the waters of the lake,
When toil is ended and my comrades run
Along the level sand-beach boyishly,
And jump and wrestle, tumbling over nets,
Until the evening star o'er Galilee
Warns us to don our tunics and retrace
The hill-path back to sleepy Nazareth.
Then through the moonlight side by side we walk,
Scarce speaking, till the long, brown path leads down
Between the shadowy houses, and we part
To sleep a sleep untroubled until dawn.

So speed the careless days, one after one,
Friendship, and evening calm, and working-hours,
Each sure and certain to be brimming o'er
With health and comradeship and happiness,
All these are mine,—why should I lose them now
By blindly following a sudden whim?
Perhaps God called me, but I need not heed.
Life is too full of love and hope and youth
To turn the foaming cup upon the sand.
If only I keep silent, I am safe;
There is no need of making stones of bread.

And yet as in the wilderness I lie,
With those strange shadows skulking in the shade,
I seem to hear the rabbi's droning voice,
Perched high above me in the synagogue,
Rustling the parchment: “It is written here,
Man shall not live by bread and flesh alone,
But by each word from out the mouth of God.”

“By bread alone?” Can it be there is
In this wild turmoil of uncertainty
Some boon unguessed of, that outweighs secure
And selfish comfort? Can man throw away
His life and find it? Must he tell the truth
Regardless of all doubters, face the mob
That lusts to tear him limb from limb, and still
March out to meet them, bravely confident?
It may be so; the truth is still the truth,
Although a village rise to cry it down.
And if God lead me through the cloud awhile,
I shall be safe if I cling to His hand:
He keeps my feet; His love supports me still;
In His good time, I shall emerge some day.

And yet why wait upon Him: is there not
Some quicker way to reach the goal desired?
The harvest of the centuries is late,
And slowly move the axles of the years;
It cannot be that man must wait so long.
Suppose some masterly heroic soul,
Bold with victorious triumph, flushed with power,
Bending the nations to his purposes,
Should seize the reins of empire, and erect
Upon the prostrate world his mighty throne.
Oh, how easy 'twere to rouse the restless tide
That surges underneath the Roman's feet,
Chafing and eddying like the undertow
That sweeps a sturdy swimmer out to sea
When he is most secure, arm Palestine,
Call in all Asia, join hands with the Greeks,
And push the purple tyrant from his throne;
The time is ripe; the nations murmuring,
The leader only missing,—why not I?

Even at the thought I feel my strength renewed
As when a runner nears the welcome goal
After a weary journey; for I see it all,
The dark and seething turmoil of the tide
That sets toward conquest, and the Jewish faith
That looks to see Messias raise them up,
Throw off their yoke of bondage, heal their stripes,
And found the endless bastions of his realm
Upon the ruins of empires and of Time.

Strange tales were spread about me at my birth:
There needs but little fanning to the flame,—
When once the tinder of revolt is set,
It grows with quenching, and it leaps so swift
No eye of man can follow its mad course.
I need but stand upon the Temple steps,
Proclaim myself Messias, sent of God,
And all Jerusalem will surge at once
In such a wild, fanatic tidal wave
Of frenzied fury, that its foaming crest,
Gathering the deeps of Asia to its arms,
Will whelm the mighty sovereignty of Rome
Upon its seven hills, until the world
Reverberates beneath the shuddering blow
And topples in engulfing surge of war.

Then shall Messias knit the nations' hands
In that new empire of man's brotherhood,
The long anticipated Golden Age
That prophets told of in their mighty moods
And dreamers fashioned in their heart of hearts,
The new Jerusalem of comradeship
That God ordained some day would come to pass
When men were weary of their wars and hates,
When lamb and lion should lie down together,
And children should climb round them, unafraid.
Is not such Empire worth a little fraud,
Such glorious perfection worth the trial,
When one bold, masterly heroic brain
Can hasten with his help God's mighty plan?
All things are possible to him who dares
The bold audacity of one great lie,—
The kingdoms of the world are mine to keep!

Once more upon the desert wind there breathe
Strange memories of rustling parchment rolls:
“Serve only God,—no other; Truth is Truth.”

I cannot hide me, Father, from Thy face;
Within the deeps I hid me—Thou wert there;
And when I climbed the steep ascent of heaven,
Beyond the farthest star-beam Thou wert there!
One and Eternal, everlasting Thou!
The Truth is Truth,—behold I serve but Thee!

And so, my Father, do I yield Thee up
My life to fashion to Thy purposes,
Forsaking comfort, empire,—following Thee
In confidence where'er Thy guidance lead.
One thing I pray Thee, leave me only this,
One broken morsel from Life's laden board,
One rose-bud smiling from the bitter thorns,
One star to guide me in the darkest night;
For Thou hast said that Thou wouldst guard and keep
That man who, fearless, trusted all to Thee
And dared to follow Truth and boldly die,
Casting himself from off the pinnacle
Of all his soul's ambitions, all his hopes,
Yielding his highest and his best to Fate,—
Yet still would give him knowledge of himself,
The faith to stake all on a single throw
And meet reverses smiling, confident
That God will not forsake him in his need.

Give me Thy angels to uphold my feet,
Lest in my fall I dash against a stone;
Give me to know that Right is ever Right,
And I shall fear no evil though I die.

My God, my God, I cannot let Thee go,
I crouch beneath the shadow of Thy wing,
Without Thee, I am nothing. Cover me!

Again the rustling of the parchment rolls;
My soul is slain within me: “Tempt not God.
That soul deserves Him not who cannot walk
Alone into the outer darknesses
Beyond God's love, and find Him in the void.
He knows not God who has not stood alone.”

Father, I yield me; shape me to Thy hand,
Bend me, or mar me, cast me from Thy face;
Thou canst not take away my love for Thee;
Only by loving may one learn to love.

And so I meet the morrow quietly.
Let come what will, night follows after day,
And after night the dawn; each day will pass
One like the other, one day at a time.
For though I know the Prophets are no more,
And God's great loving voice, men say, is hushed,
He walks no more among us,—still I trust
That He is nearer than we sometimes think;
Perhaps men cannot see Who walks beside,
Nor hear His voice when He speaks tenderly:
Our ears are filled with idle clamoring,
Our eyes are dazzled with too near a view,
We walk with God each day and know it not.

The fortieth night is passing; I must rise
And with the morning seek my mother's house;
Then forth to wander where He leads the way.
'Tis such a simple message that I bear
A child can grasp it; surely so will men:
“God is our Father,—let His sons be kind.”