Alfred H. Miles, ed. The Sacred Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By Miscellaneous Poems. V. A poor wayfaring manJames Montgomery (17711854)
A
Hath often cross’d me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief,
That I could never answer, Nay:
I had not power to ask his name,
Whither he went, or whence he came,
Yet there was something in his eye
That won my love, I knew not why.
He entered; not a word he spake
Just perishing for want of bread;
I gave him all; he bless’d it, brake,
And ate; but gave me part again:
Mine was an angel’s portion then;
For, while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone;
The heedless water mocked his thirst,
He heard it, saw it hurrying on:
I ran to raise the sufferer up;
Thrice from the stream he drain’d my cup,
Dipt, and returned it running o’er;
I drank, and never thirsted more.
A winter hurricane aloof;
I heard his voice abroad, and flew
To bid him welcome to my roof;
I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest,
Laid him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the hearth my bed, and seem’d
In Eden’s garden while I dream’d.
I found him by the highway side:
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spirit, and supplied
Wine, oil, refreshment; he was healed;
I had myself a wound concealed;
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And peace bound up my broken heart.
To meet a traitor’s death at morn;
The tide of lying tongues I stemmed,
And honoured him midst shame and scorn;
My friendship’s utmost zeal to try,
He ask’d, if I for him would die?
The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill;
But the free spirit cried, “I will.”
The stranger darted from disguise;
The tokens in His hands I knew,
My Saviour stood before mine eyes!
He spake; and my poor name He named:
“Of Me thou hast not been ashamed;
These deeds shall thy memorial be;
Fear not; thou didst them unto Me.”