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A SOLDIER with his hand upon the rein— | |
| A war-horse flinging foam-flakes on the air— | |
| A soldier on his knees in deadly pain, | |
| From sunburnt lips a wildly ringing prayer! | |
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| “My servant, Lord! my servant, but a slave! | 5 |
| With none to spring between him and his death, | |
| I cannot stand by powerless to save; | |
| I cannot watch the torture of his breath. | |
| |
| “Poor fool, at times he takes my hard rough hand | |
| And kisses it, and calls me ‘master, dear,’ | 10 |
| Till I, who’ve fought for Rome in ev’ry land, | |
| Am troubled with the weakness of a tear. | |
| |
| “How well I can remember the first hour, | |
| When galloping across the morning plain, | |
| Wet with the tear-drops of an angry show’r, | 15 |
| I heard a shriek rise shrill, and die again. | |
| |
| “Mysterious pity pulsed along my blood, | |
| I thunder’d on the echo of that cry, | |
| A crowd of brutal faces laughing stood | |
| Around a slave in his death-agony. | 20 |
| |
| “I smote the smiter—hurl’d the mob aside, | |
| To right and left I swung mine iron mace; | |
| One instant, and his thongs were all untied, | |
| His dark eyes pleading mercy in my face. | |
| |
| “My Lord, what I have been God only knows, | 25 |
| A soldier bred in camp and battle-field, | |
| My music the fierce war-cry of Rome’s foes, | |
| My friends an honest heart and trusty shield. | |
| |
| “I do not now profess to be a saint: | |
| All the sad story of my reckless youth, | 30 |
| O’er which my manhood sickens deadly faint, | |
| Is read by one whom Israel calleth Truth, | |
| |
| “O Lord! I tell Thee all about this slave, | |
| Because I read men’s faces, and I see | |
| That thou art tender, true of heart, and brave, | 35 |
| And crown’d with suff’ring’s nameless majesty. | |
| |
| “In many ways I have offended God, | |
| My soul is well nigh broken with its shame, | |
| Yet never on the down-cast have I trod; | |
| Most sinful else, in this I have no blame. | 40 |
| |
| “O Lord! I know full well that Thou canst see | |
| Why I should love the simple slave I saved; | |
| Thou wouldst have loved him for his misery, | |
| A greater danger for him wouldst have braved. | |
| |
| “And is it wonder I do love him still, | 45 |
| When he is dying with no friend but me, | |
| Babbling in dreams of some far palm-fringed hill, | |
| Some cool lagoon beyond a sultry sea? | |
| |
| “My Lord, death might have leapt and struck me down: | |
| I do not fear him, cringer to the strong | 50 |
| And tyrant o’er the weak—none fear his frown | |
| Save he whose life is built upon the wrong.” | |
| |
| There was such sudden silence in the street, | |
| You heard the lazy ripple on the beach; | |
| The soldier still was kneeling at His feet, | 55 |
| The burden of his sorrow choking speech. | |
| |
| “I will come and heal him,” said the Lord; | |
| A murmur stole amid the list’ning crowd; | |
| The soldier sprang up,—“Lord, say in a word— | |
| “I am not worthy,”—then the strong man bow’d. | 60 |
| |
| And fell down on the pavement with a groan, | |
| His spirit stricken by its stormy grief; | |
| The sneering mob swept on, and then alone | |
| The smitten heart with Jesus found relief. | |
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| Ah! brother, sister, in life’s crowded street, | 65 |
| What better need there is that you and I | |
| Should fall in love and sorrow at those feet, | |
| And lift once more our supplicating cry. | |
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| O Lord! I am not worthy thou shouldst come | |
| Beneath my roof, too foul for thy pure eyes; | 70 |
| Yet there’s a dying servant in my home, | |
| Lord, speak—I am not worthy—or he dies. | |
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