THE MIRACLE

Up from the templed city of the Jews,

The road ran straight and white

To Jericho, the City of the Palms,

The City of Delight.

Down that still road from far Judean hills

The shepherds drove their sheep

At silver dawn — at stirring of the birds —

When men were all asleep.

Full many went that weary way at noon,

Or rested by the trees,

Romans and slaves, Gentiles and bearded priests,

Sinners and Pharisees.

But when the pink clouds drifted far and high,

Like rose leaves blowing past,

When in the west where one star blessed the sky

The gates of day shut fast.

All travellers journeyed home, and the moonlight

Washed the road fresh and sweet,

Until it seemed a gleaming ivory path,

Waiting for royal feet.

Now it was noon, and life at its full tide

Rolled ever to and fro,

A restless sea, between Jerusalem

And white-walled Jericho.

Blind Bartimeus, by the highway side,

Sat begging‘ neath the trees,

And heard the world go by, Gentiles and Jews,

Sinners and Pharisees.

Blind Bartimeus of the mask-like face,

And patient, outstretched hand —

He upon whom his God had set a mark

No man might understand;

Blind Bartimeus of the lonely dark,

Who knew no thing called fear,

But dreamt his dreams, and heard the little sounds

No man but he could hear.

He heard the beating of the bird's soft wings

Uprising through the air;

He heard the camel's footfall in the dust,

And knew who travelled there.

He heard the lizard when it moved at noon

On the grey, sunlit wall;

He heard the far-off temple bells, what time

He felt the shadows fall.

Now, in the golden hour, he stooped to hear

A muffled sound and low,

The tramping of a myriad sandalled feet

That came from Jericho.

Then on the road a little lad he knew

Ran past, with eager cry,

“Ho, Bartimeus! Give thine heart good cheer,

For David's Son comes by!

“He comes! He comes! And, sad one, who can say

What He may do for thee?

He makes the lame to walk! He heals the sick!

He makes the blind to see!”

“He makes the blind to see! Oh, God of Hosts,

Beyond the sky called blue,

What if Messiah cometh to His own!

What if the words be true!”

On his swift way the little herald sped,

Like bird upon the wing,

And left the lean, brown beggar — world-forgot —

Waiting for Israel's King.

But when the dust came whirling to his feet —

When the mad throng drew near —

Blind Bartimeus rose, and from his lips

A cry rang loud and clear —

The cry of all the ages, of each soul

In sad captivity;

The endless cry from depths of bitter woe —

“Have mercy upon me!”

What though the wild oncoming multitude

Jested and bade him cease;

What though the Scribes and mighty Pharisees

Told him to keep his peace;

What though his heart grew faint, and all the strength

Slipped from each trembling limb —

The One of all the earth his soul desired

Stood still — and spoke to him.

Then silence fell, while the upheaving throng,

As sea-waves backward curled,

Left a great path, and down the path there shone

The Light of all the world.

The Light from whose mysterious golden depths

The Sun rose in his might —

The light from whose white, hidden fires were lit

The torches of the night;

The Light that shining on a thing of clay

Giveth it Life and Will:

The Light that with an unknown power can blast

And bid all life be still;

The Light that calls a ray of its own light

A man's undying soul —

The Light that lifts the broken lives of earth,

Touches and makes them whole.

Up towards the Radiance Bartimeus went,

Alone, and poor, and blind —

Feeling his way, if haply it led on

To One he fain would find.

Then spoke the Voice again. Oh, mystic words

Of a compelling grace:

The curtain rose from off his darkened sight —

He saw the King's own face.

So strangely beautiful — so strangely near —

He worshipped with his eyes,

Unheeding that for him at last there shone

The sunlit noonday skies.

What though the clamouring crowd echoed his name

Unto its utmost rim,

He only saw the Christ — and in the light

He rose and followed Him.

Oh, Bartimeus of the mask-like face,

And patient, outstretched hand,

Was it for this God set on thee the mark

No man might understand?