 | The hours of the passion and other poems |  |
103
ST. BARNABAS
Amidst these freer, fuller days
Of wealth, and wanderings unconfined,
Doth still through the familiar ways
The Via Dolorosa wind;
Beneath their burden faint and bowed,
Its victims pass among the crowd.
Of wealth, and wanderings unconfined,
Doth still through the familiar ways
The Via Dolorosa wind;
Beneath their burden faint and bowed,
Its victims pass among the crowd.
And ofttimes, 'mid the London streets,
A face that they have seen before
Their weary, dumb appealing meets,
Compassionate, consolator;
The years have made it dear and known,
Yet named but in an undertone.
A face that they have seen before
Their weary, dumb appealing meets,
Compassionate, consolator;
The years have made it dear and known,
Yet named but in an undertone.
He hears them suffer and complain,
They agonise—he fails them not;
The workers in the fields of pain
He strengthens in their daily lot;
Pale hands are stretched in feeble prayer,
Even till death his help is there.
They agonise—he fails them not;
The workers in the fields of pain
He strengthens in their daily lot;
Pale hands are stretched in feeble prayer,
Even till death his help is there.
And yet these things are hard to speak,
Nor can the tale of them be told;
For pain is secret, and its cheek
Shrinks even as shame's from sight or hold:
And he who enters at that door
Is dumb thereof for evermore.
Nor can the tale of them be told;
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Shrinks even as shame's from sight or hold:
And he who enters at that door
Is dumb thereof for evermore.
And secret is the burden borne
By him who is their minister;
For hope that comes to souls forlorn,
And comfort to the sufferer,
Steps joyously,—nor do we trace
The lines of sorrow on the face.
By him who is their minister;
For hope that comes to souls forlorn,
And comfort to the sufferer,
Steps joyously,—nor do we trace
The lines of sorrow on the face.
With no ascetic outward mien,
Wayfarer where the saints have fared;—
But sunshine of a smile serene,
And simple pleasures freely shared;
And all the thorn and Cross alone
To God and to the angels known.
Wayfarer where the saints have fared;—
But sunshine of a smile serene,
And simple pleasures freely shared;
And all the thorn and Cross alone
To God and to the angels known.
By life renounced, by gifts laid down,
By unacknowledged sacrifice,
Is woven year by year the crown
Perceived more plainly than its price;
The Master's form is scarcely dim,
So close its shadow falls on him.
By unacknowledged sacrifice,
Is woven year by year the crown
Perceived more plainly than its price;
The Master's form is scarcely dim,
So close its shadow falls on him.
The daily offered prayer at dawn,
In dimness of the sanctuary,
The altar in the heart withdrawn,
Through days of arduous ministry:—
And all the rest unsaid must be,
Self-sealed into obscurity.
In dimness of the sanctuary,
The altar in the heart withdrawn,
Through days of arduous ministry:—
And all the rest unsaid must be,
Self-sealed into obscurity.
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A life that doth itself divest
Of self, that guards its heavenly height
As closely as the wren her nest,
Nor lets its left hand know its right,—
An ill requital, and a wrong,
It were to spoil it with a song.
Of self, that guards its heavenly height
As closely as the wren her nest,
Nor lets its left hand know its right,—
An ill requital, and a wrong,
It were to spoil it with a song.
Bearing thy brethren's Cross along,
Angel of darkest days and hours,
Thy heart must patient be and strong,
Upheld by the celestial powers;
And yet not wholly satisfied,—
Hiding desire it cannot hide:
Angel of darkest days and hours,
Thy heart must patient be and strong,
Upheld by the celestial powers;
And yet not wholly satisfied,—
Hiding desire it cannot hide:
The irrepressible desire
Of love, to love itself to be
Conformed and fastened, even by fire;—
Yet in entire humility
Letting no sigh escape, but still
Waiting each hour His Holy Will.
Of love, to love itself to be
Conformed and fastened, even by fire;—
Yet in entire humility
Letting no sigh escape, but still
Waiting each hour His Holy Will.
Thou hear'st the wind blow where it lists,
From what world's end thou canst not tell;
The Breath of God which nought resists
Wafts the unspoken word as well:
‘Saint Barnabas’ is whispered low;—
The sufferers and their servants know.
From what world's end thou canst not tell;
The Breath of God which nought resists
Wafts the unspoken word as well:
‘Saint Barnabas’ is whispered low;—
The sufferers and their servants know.
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