The Miracle and Other Poems Part 1

The Miracle and Other Poems.

by Virna Sheard.

THE MIRACLE

Up from the templed city of the Jews, The road ran straight and white To Jericho, the City of the Palms, The City of Delight.

Down that still road from far Judean hills The shepherds drove their sheep At silver dawn--at stirring of the birds-- When men were all asleep.

Full many went that weary way at noon, Or rested by the trees, Romans and slaves, Gentiles and bearded priests, Sinners and Pharisees.

But when the pink clouds drifted far and high, Like rose leaves blowing past, When in the west where one star blessed the sky The gates of day shut fast.

All travellers journeyed home, and the moonlight Washed the road fresh and sweet, Until it seemed a gleaming ivory path, Waiting for royal feet.

Now it was noon, and life at its full tide Rolled ever to and fro, A restless sea, between Jerusalem And white-walled Jericho.

Blind Bartimeus, by the highway side, Sat begging 'neath the trees, And heard the world go by, Gentiles and Jews, Sinners and Pharisees.

Blind Bartimeus of the mask-like face, And patient, outstretched hand-- He upon whom his G.o.d had set a mark No man might understand;

Blind Bartimeus of the lonely dark, Who knew no thing called fear, But dreamt his dreams, and heard the little sounds No man but he could hear.

He heard the beating of the bird's soft wings Uprising through the air; He heard the camel's footfall in the dust, And knew who travelled there.

He heard the lizard when it moved at noon On the grey, sunlit wall; He heard the far-off temple bells, what time He felt the shadows fall.

Now, in the golden hour, he stooped to hear A m.u.f.fled sound and low, The tramping of a myriad sandalled feet That came from Jericho.

Then on the road a little lad he knew Ran past, with eager cry, "Ho, Bartimeus! Give thine heart good cheer, For David's Son comes by!

"He comes! He comes! And, sad one, who can say What He may do for thee?

He makes the lame to walk! He heals the sick!

He makes the blind to see!"

"He makes the blind to see! Oh, G.o.d of Hosts, Beyond the sky called blue, What if Messiah cometh to His own!

What if the words be true!"

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 mult.i.tude 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.

Then spoke the Voice again. Oh, mystic words Of a compelling grace: The curtain rose from off his darkened sight-- He saw the King's own face.

So strangely beautiful--so strangely near-- He worshipped with his eyes, Unheeding that for him at last there shone The sunlit noonday skies.

What though the clamouring crowd echoed his name Unto its utmost rim, He only saw the Christ--and in the light He rose and followed Him.

Oh, Bartimeus of the mask-like face, And patient, outstretched hand, Was it for this G.o.d set on thee the mark No man might understand?

THE CROW

Hail, little herald!--Art thou then returning From summer lands, this wild and wind-torn day?

Hast brought the word for which our hearts are yearning, That spring is on the way?

Hark! Now there comes a clear, insistent calling,

From hill tops crested with untarnished snow; The trumpet notes are drifting--floating--falling-- Whene'er the breezes blow!

"Winter is over, and the spring is coming!"

Glad is thy message, little page in black-- "Winter is over, and the spring is coming-- The spring is coming back!"

Tell me, 0 prophet, bird of sombre feather, Who taught thee all the mysteries of spring?-- Didst note each pa.s.sing mood of wind and weather, While flying to the North on buoyant wing?

Or didst thou rest upon the bare brown branches And hear the sap go singing through the trees?-- Didst watch with keen, far-seeing downward glances, The leaves unlock their cells with fairy keys?

What though thy voice hath not a trace of sweetness It thrills one through and through, With promises of Joy in all completeness What time the skies are blue.

When robins from the apple-trees are flinging Out on the air their silver shower of song,-- In lilac days, when children run a-singing, No single thought shall do thy memory wrong.

"Winter is over and the spring is coming!"

Sweet are thy tidings, little page in black-- "Winter is over and the spring is coming-- The spring is coming back!"

WHEN APRIL COMES!