Between the Gates

BETWEEN the gates of birth and death

An old and saintly pilgrim passed,

With look of one who witnesseth

The long-sought goal at last.

“O thou whose reverent feet have found

The Master’s footprints in thy way,

And walked thereon as holy ground,

A boon of thee I pray.

“My lack would borrow thy excess,

My feeble faith the strength of thine;

I need thy soul’s white saintliness

To hide the stains of mine.

“The grace and favor else denied

May well be granted for thy sake.”

So, tempted, doubting, sorely tried,

A younger pilgrim spake.

“Thy prayer, my son, transcends my gift;

No power is mine,” the sage replied,

“The burden of a soul to lift

Or stain of sin to hide.

“Howe’er the outward life may seem,

For pardoning grace we all must pray;

No man his brother can redeem

Or a soul’s ransom pay.

“Not always age is growth of good;

Its years have losses with their gain;

Against some evil youth withstood

Weak hands may strive in vain.

“With deeper voice than any speech

Of mortal lips from man to man,

What earth’s unwisdom may not teach

The Spirit only can.

“Make thou that holy guide thine own,

And following where it leads the way,

The known shall lapse in the unknown

As twilight into day.

“The best of earth shall still remain,

And heaven’s eternal years shall prove

That life and death, and joy and pain,

Are ministers of Love.”