He stood before the Sanhedrim; The scowling rabbis gazed at him.

He recked not of their praise or blame; There was no fear, there was no shame, For one upon whose dazzled eyes The whole world poured its vast surprise.

The open heaven was far too near, His first day's light too sweet and clear, To let him waste his new-gained ken On the hate-clouded face of men.

But still they questioned, "Who art thou?

What hast thou been? What art thou now?

Thou art not he who yesterday Sat here and begged beside the way; For he was blind."

--"And I am he; For I was blind, but now I see."

He told the story o'er and o'er; It was his full heart's only lore: A prophet on the Sabbath-day Had touched his sightless eyes with clay, And made him see who had been blind.

Their words pa.s.sed by him like the wind, Which raves and howls, but cannot shock The hundred-fathom-rooted rock.

Their threats and fury all went wide; They could not touch his Hebrew pride.

Their sneers at Jesus and His band, Nameless and homeless in the land, Their boasts of Moses and his Lord, All could not change him by one word.

"I know not what this man may be, Sinner or saint; but as for me, One thing I know,--that I am he Who once was blind, and now I see."

They were all doctors of renown, The great men of a famous town, With deep brows, wrinkled, broad, and wise, Beneath their wide phylacteries; The wisdom of the East was theirs, And honour crowned their silver hairs.

The man they jeered and laughed to scorn Was unlearned, poor, and humbly born; But he knew better far than they What came to him that Sabbath-day; And what the Christ had done for him He knew, and not the Sanhedrim.

SINAI AND CALVARY.

There are two mountains hallowed By majesty sublime, Which rear their crests unconquered Above the floods of Time.

Uncounted generations Have gazed on them with awe,-- The mountain of the Gospel, The mountain of the Law.

From Sinai's cloud of darkness The vivid lightnings play; They serve the G.o.d of vengeance, The Lord who shall repay.

Each fault must bring its penance, Each sin the avenging blade, For G.o.d upholds in justice The laws that He hath made.

But Calvary stands to ransom The earth from utter loss, In shade than light more glorious, The shadow of the Cross.

To heal a sick world's trouble, To soothe its woe and pain, On Calvary's sacred summit The Paschal Lamb was slain.

The boundless might of Heaven Its law in mercy furled, As once the bow of promise O'erarched a drowning world.

The Law said, "As you keep me, It shall be done to you;"

But Calvary prays, "Forgive them; They know not what they do."

Almighty G.o.d! direct us To keep Thy perfect Law!

O blessed Saviour, help us Nearer to Thee to draw!

Let Sinai's thunders aid us To guard our feet from sin; And Calvary's light inspire us The love of G.o.d to win.

THE VISION OF ST. PETER.

To Peter by night the faithfullest came And said, "We appeal to thee!

The life of the Church is in thy life; We pray thee to rise and flee.

"For the tyrant's hand is red with blood, And his arm is heavy with power; Thy head, the head of the Church, will fall If thou tarry in Rome an hour."

Through the sleeping town St. Peter pa.s.sed To the wide Campagna plain; In the starry light of the Alban night He drew free breath again:

When across his path an awful form In luminous glory stood; His thorn-crowned brow, His hands and feet, Were wet with immortal blood.

The G.o.dlike sorrow which filled His eyes Seemed changed to a G.o.dlike wrath As they turned on Peter, who cried aloud, And sank to his knees in the path.

"Lord of my life, my love, my soul!

Say, what wilt Thou with me?"

A voice replied, "I go to Rome To be crucified for thee."

The Apostle sprang, all flushed, to his feet,-- The vision had pa.s.sed away; The light still lay on the dewy plain, But the sky in the east was gray.

To the city walls St. Peter turned, And his heart in his breast grew fire; In every vein the hot blood burned With the strength of one high desire.

And st.u.r.dily back he marched to his death Of terrible pain and shame; And never a shade of fear again To the stout Apostle came.

ISRAEL.

When by Jabbok the patriarch waited To learn on the morrow his doom, And his dubious spirit debated In darkness and silence and gloom, There descended a Being with whom He wrestled in agony sore, With striving of heart and of brawn, And not for an instant forbore Till the east gave a threat of the dawn; And then, as the Awful One blessed him, To his lips and his spirit there came, Compelled by the doubts that oppressed him, The cry that through questioning ages Has been wrung from the hinds and the sages, "Tell me, I pray Thee, Thy name!"

Most fatal, most futile, of questions!

Wherever the heart of man beats, In the spirit's most sacred retreats, It comes with its sombre suggestions, Unanswered for ever and aye.

The blessing may come and may stay, For the wrestlers heroic endeavour; But the question, unheeded for ever, Dies out in the broadening day.

In the ages before our traditions, By the altars of dark superst.i.tions, The imperious question has come; When the death-stricken victim lay sobbing At the feet of his slayer and priest, And his heart was laid smoking and throbbing To the sound of the cymbal and drum On the steps of the high Teocallis; When the delicate Greek at his feast Poured forth the red wine from his chalice With mocking and cynical prayer; When by Nile Egypt worshipping lay, And afar, through the rosy, flushed air The Memnon called out to the day; Where the Muezzin's cry floats from his spire; In the vaulted Cathedral's dim shades, Where the crushed hearts of thousands aspire Through arts highest miracles higher, This question of questions invades Each heart bowed in worship or shame; In the air where the censers are swinging, A voice, going up with the singing, Cries, "Tell me, I pray Thee, Thy name!"

No answer came back, not a word, To the patriarch there by the ford; No answer has come through the ages To the poets, the seers, and the sages Who have sought in the secrets of science The name and the nature of G.o.d, Whether cursing in desperate defiance Or kissing His absolute rod; But the answer which was and shall be, "My name! Nay, what is it to thee?"

The search and the question are vain.

By use of the strength that is in you, By wrestling of soul and of sinew The blessing of G.o.d you may gain.

There are lights in the far-gleaming Heaven That never will shine on our eyes; To mortals it may not be given To range those inviolate skies.

The mind, whether praying or scorning, That tempts those dread secrets shall fail; But strive through the night till the morning, And mightily shalt thou prevail.

THE CROWS AT WASHINGTON.

Slow flapping to the setting sun By twos and threes, in wavering rows, As twilight shadows dimly close, The crows fly over Washington.