 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
398
[There was of old a Moslem saint]
There was of old a Moslem saintNamed Rabia. On her bed she lay
Pale, sick, but uttered no complaint.
“Send for the holy men to pray.”
And two were sent. The first drew near:
“The prayers of no man are sincere
Who does not bow beneath the rod,
And bear the chastening strokes of God.”
Whereto the second, more severe:
“The prayers of no man are sincere
Who does not in the rod rejoice,
And make the strokes he bears his choice.”
Then she, who felt that in such pain
The love of self did still remain,
Answered: “No prayers can be sincere
When they from whose wrung hearts they fall
Are not as I am, lying here,
Who long since have forgotten all.
Dear Lord of Love! There is no pain.”
So Rabia, and was well again.
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |