Classic Poem

The Man of Sorrows.

He hath no form nor comeliness
Nor beauty in our sinful eyes;
We look upon him and despise
A visage marred by long distress.

A man of sorrows, known to grief,
We would not take him into grace;
We hid our faces from his face,
And when he pleaded we were deaf.

We thought him stricken of the Lord;
We judged him worthy taunt and blow;
Yet surely he had borne our woe
And been because of us abhorred.

For our transgression was He slain,
And bruised for our iniquity;
Because of Him we do not die,
Nor suffer any stripe of pain.

Like foolish sheep we went astray,
We wandered each his wayward path;
But He alone endured the wrath
Of Him who hates the sinner's way.

Afflicted, smitten, bleeding, torn,
He opened not his mouth to weep,
But patient suffered like the sheep
Who moaneth not when he is shorn.

Because He gave his soul to death,
Because he bare the sins of earth,
The world at last shall know his worth
And praise Him to its latest breath.

The Fathers.

The time would fail to tell of those
Who wrought the wondrous deeds of faith;
Who kept their crowns despite of skaith,
And ran their course through many woes;

Who quenched the violence of fire,
And 'scaped the sharpness of the sword;
Who turned to flight the alien horde,
And quelled the lion in his ire;

Of mothers who received their dead,
Through fervent prayer, to life again;
Of men who suffered mortal pain,
Nor ever for deliverance plead;

Or those who fronted scourge and scorn
And biting bonds without regret,
Because their holy thoughts were set
Upon the resurrection morn;

While others, hunted, destitute,
Sought refuges in mountain caves,
Or found their nameless, noble graves
Among the coverts of the brute;

Unspotted souls of whom the earth
Was undeserving, though they strove
To lift it on their mighty love
And give its dust some little worth.

All these, whose gracious names endure,
Saw not the Christ that we have seen,
But kept their hallowed hope serene
Because they held the promise sure.

The Heralds.

I saw the seraph seven who stand
Before the awful throne of light,
Each one arrayed in blinding white,
Each one a trumpet in the hand.

An eighth beside the altar came
And waved a golden censer high,
Whose incense sweetened all the sky,
As though the sun were fragrant flame.

Therewith he offered up the prayers
Of that innumerable throng
Who fought against the sires of wrong
And quelled the princes of the airs.

Next, taking from the altar hearth
A censer full of ruddy fire,
He lifted it in holy ire
And cast it o'er the trembling earth.

Then lightnings every whither went,
Incessant thunderings were hurled,
And earthquakes tottered round the world,
While answered voices of lament.

Thereon the herald seven arose
And blew their trumpets one by one,
Fulfilling earth and moon and sun
With desolations, dooms and woes;

Till presently, on sea and shore,
Another angel stood alone,
Who pointed to the judgment throne
And swore that time should be no more.

The Golden City.

The elder firmament and earth
Had passed away in awful flame;
Thereon another welkin came,
Another world received its birth.

Then, looking up, I saw descend
The Golden City, strong and high,
Yet clear as crystal to the eye,
Transparent gold from end to end.

Its walls were jasper, standing on
A plinth of onyx, chrysolite,
Of jacinth, beryl, sapphire bright,
Sard, amethyst and chalcedon.

From pearly portals argentine
Immeasurable streets unrolled,
With pavements wrought of solid gold,
Yet amber-clear like golden wine.

No temple was there in the place,
No heavenly luminary shone;
The fane thereof is God alone,
The sun thereof, Jehovah's face.

Then, far above all mortal ken,
I heard a mighty voice proclaim:
" Forever holy be His name!
God cometh down to dwell with men.

" He comes to wipe away their tears,
To give the stricken ones relief;
Yea, death shall be no more, nor grief,
Nor any mourning, pain, or fears. "

Then God upon His throne replied:
" Behold I make creation new!
These promises are faithful true;
So write, and let my words abide! "

The White Robed

I saw in wonder-dreams of slumber
A mighty, mingled multitude
Of every region, tongue and brood,
Too infinite for man to number.

With waving palms, arrayed in brightness,
And sounding golden harps, they choired
Round One, in jasper bloom attired,
Who sate a throne of blinding whiteness.

Then spake an elder clothed in glory:
" What men are these in robes of snow? "
I answered: " How may sinner know?
Thou knowest, Lord, their hallowed story. "

He said: " Behold the sons of noyance
Who kept the faith in weary stress,
Nor ever trusted God the less
Because they found no earthly joyance;

" Wherefore the gracious One, the tender
Redeemer, wiped away their tears,
And lifted them to astral spheres
To share His perfect love and splendor. "