Poem November 26, 1932 Issue

The Messenger

DOROTHY JACOB

The golden afternoon was drawing to a close,
And the still peace of evening filled the sky;
The drowsy air was hushed around the well
Whereon the traveler rested,
And the quiet benediction of the evening
Deepened into glory with his presence.
He was alone; his friends had gone in search of sustenance,
And left him resting there in sweet communion with his Father.
To that quiet place there came a woman of the country,
World-worn, and searching for she knew not what.
But that deep heart, to whom all things were plain,
Saw all her need,
And through the simple lesson of the well
Told how her thirsty soul might drink of living water;
And she, trembling with an unnamed hope,
Drank his words, and waked to know the truth.
With that true praise whose outward form is gratitude,
She longed to share the healing of that draft,
Nor stayed till she had brought to men her message
In the glad outpouring, "Is not this the Christ?"
The human thought which sought to limit woman
Marveled to hear him tell her of the truth,
Yet in the light of that great understanding,
Too vast, too wide, to know the petty strictures
Which are class, or sex, or creed,
Durst not voice its criticism,
And silenced were the words which would have chid her
For that dear knowledge.
And that glad message carried by the woman of Samaria
Was echoed at the empty sepulcher
When to sorrowing womanhood came the glad tidings,
"He is risen."

Today, anew, to weary heartsick souls
Has come the message which was sent of old,
And men and angels listen to that chant of praise,
Rising in gratitude to the all-loving Father,
For that dear messenger who in our time
Has brought to us the perfect understanding
Of the risen Christ.

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