W. Garrett Horder, comp. The Poets’ Bible: New Testament. 1895.
A Burial at Machærus
Edward Hayes Plumptre (18211891)L
The star of hope that lit the eastern sky
Now in deep night is sunk,
And all bright visions fade away and die.
Should lead us onward to a land of rest,
Or give at least to see
The wide fair valleys from the mountain’s crest.
Had come the fulness of great joy unpriced,
That all the dreary past
Would fade before the glory of the Christ.
With prophet’s garment rough and words of fire,
To strike the murmurers dumb,
And turn the hearts of children to their sire?
Nor Christ, nor yet Elijah, was the seer,
The friend who thus lies low,
Who taught us how to love, and whom to fear.
Heard crying in the wilderness, “Prepare,”
And then, its one work o’er,
Melting in silence of the midnight air.
Through soul and brain with agony intense,
Searching each thought of ill,
Waking to rapture all the torpid sense,—
In soldier rushing eager on the spoil,
Or meet the utmost need
Of peasants worn by ceaseless, thankless toil.
In all men’s ears the story of our woes,
And kneeling there adored,
Where the old river through the reed-bed flows.
Naked we plunged beneath the cleansing stream,
And lo! upon us came
New thoughts and hopes that were not all a dream.
To where he dwelt upon the mountain’s height,
Arrayed in holiness,
True priest, great prophet, stainless Nazarite.
We strove to curb the promptings of the sense;
Taught by him how to pray,
We climbed the lower slopes of excellence.
A girl’s soft movements in the winding dance,
A wanton’s wreathèd smiles,
Stirring the tetrarch’s blood with harlot glance,—
Have crushed our hopes, and laid them in the dust;
Yes, these have brought him low,
The proud Herodias triumphs in her lust.
Ten thousand warriors looking on to cheer;
He might not taste the bliss
Of those whose heart has known nor doubt nor fear.
The stifling dungeon, and the sultry air;
Weary the long delays
Of hopes that bordered almost on despair.
With brow that told its tale of sinless youth,
And speech not dark or dim,
That showed Him born true vessel of the Truth,
And fain had sought a blessing at His hand;
And lo! from out the cloud,
The voice of power that few might understand.
He heard the words which bade him worship there
The Son of God most high,
And saw the Spirit hover through the air;
Had done the work of forty years of life,
And, working highest praise,
That prophet came victorious from his strife.
“Behold the Lamb that bears the world’s great sin;”
And some who saw Him there,
Went where He dwelt, and stayed all night within.
They left the seer who raised their souls from earth;
And on Gennesareth’s shore
Gained, so they said, the gift of second birth.
The peasants and the fishers of the lake,
They went to hear and see:
But we our prophet guide might not forsake.
No more they came by hundreds to the stream;
Hushed was their stir and din,
The fame and favour vanished as a dream.
Rejoiced in spirit, as the bridegroom’s friend,
When bridegroom meets his bride,
And love’s long hopes at last attain their end,
Am ready,” so he spake, “to wane and fade,
Ready to fall and die,
Or wither slowly in the blighting shade.
That now men list to Him their King and Lord,
I but a wandering voice,
He the true Christ, the everlasting Word.”
Came the sore heat and burden of the day;
As the sun strikes at noon,
So fell on him the blasts that smite and slay.
And would not turn to fawn upon the great;
With crownéd guilt he strove,
And earned the guerdon of a harlot’s hate.
The fruitless strivings with a wavering will,
The pain of one who seeks
To wake to good a soul that cleaves to ill.
He lingered on, not knowing all that passed,
If all things prospered well,
Or the bright morning were with storms o’ercast.
Worn down by dark perplexity and doubt,
He called us to his side,
And bade us go and ask the question out.
And dark clouds gathered round his vision clear,
And just the nascent taint
Of weakened faith had filled his soul with fear.
The one we looked for, coming to redeem?
Or must another now
Rear the proud fabric of the glorious dream?
Tarry the wheels that should the conqueror bring?
Why this long, long delay,
The halting of the chariots of the King?
In dungeon dark and fetters sharp to lie?
Why stays the all-loving Will
To set the sufferers free, or bid them die?”
Blind saw, deaf heard, and leapt as harts the lame,
And a sweet voice and low
With gentle words of love to poor men came.
Gush with hot tears of love and holiest joy,
The man’s heart, seared and dry,
Beat with the pulse and passion of the boy.
The sighs breathed forth upon the silent air,
While many fondly grasped
His garment’s hem in agony of prayer.
One word of anger at the quest o’erbold,
Nor would His friend forsake,
Nor leave the tale of love and power untold.
Yet once again to John the things we saw;
And all at last was well,
And the old faith was once more clear from flaw,
And at the gate we heard the spearman knock,
And too soon all was o’er,
The shepherd smitten, we a scattered flock.
For parting words of hope, or faith, or love,
And none were there to see,
The hero-greatness of his soul to prove.
The grave is hollowed in the cavern’s side,
And we few friends are met
That bleeding form within the tomb to hide.
But little cared he for the spice and balm;
No hireling mourner’s cries
Need break the stillness of the sunset calm.
Keep that for lordly burials of the great;
As he lived, lay him here;
He needs no pageant, and the hour is late.
That garment rough his only winding-sheet,
Just veiling from the eye
The bleeding trunk and swathing round the feet.
His sun goes down ere half the day is done,
And as a tale is told,
So all his work is ended, scarce begun.
To whom shall we in doubt and sadness turn?
Wilt Thou receive us, Thou,
Who mad’st our cold faint hearts within us burn?
The new begins in clouds and darkness veiled;
But we not far shall stray,
If we but trust the Love that ne’er has failed.
Precept, and prayer, and hymn, and fast, and rite,
All that our spirits fill
With life and truth, with gladness and delight.
And bide our time till John arise again;
We will not linger, no,
We will not wait till all things are made plain.
As those on whom the light of God has shone,
Till He more light shall give,
Or through the darkness claim us as his own.