Classic Poem

An Angel of the Lord came up from Gilgal,
Up to the place of tears,
From where in the deep forest-calms
The ancient wind was singing psalms,
And all in tune, the tall green palms
Bow'd down their feathery spears.

The Angel spake at Bochim to the people,
And like a whirlwind swept
His words of anger, as he told
Of heathen shrines within the fold,
Of heathen altars on the wold,
Till all the people wept.

They wept, like husbandmen in summer weather
Who watch the ripening corn,
And see the crimson poppy stain
The yellowing sea of golden grain,
Like drops of blood: and all in vain
Their idle spring-time mourn.

Cometh the Angel of the Lord full often
And standeth by our homes,
Not in his visible presence bright
Passing from Gilgal's palmy height
With word of power, and arm of might,
Yet evermore he comes.

Perchance he takes death by the hand and standeth
Low knocking at our door, —
We miss one little lambkin's bleat,
The gabbling voice so wild and sweet,
The tottering of uneven feet
Along the nursery floor.

Perchance he comes with sickness in his quiver,
And stirreth all the deeps
Of our whole inward life, and tells
Where in our bosom's secret cells
In its green grove some idol dwells,
Some sin unheeded sleeps.

But whether with sharp pain he come, or sorrow,
Happy who own him near;
Who o'er the bier, and by the bed,
Feel his white wings and know his tread,
And softly say with bended head,
" An Angel hath been here! "

Yes, he hath come up surely to our Bochim
Out of the green palm-wood;
So hearken we God's awful word,
Lay bare our bosom's bleeding chord,
And make an offering to the Lord,
Even where the Angel stood.