[Written for the Sentinel]

The Walk to Emmaus

It lies among the hills—that little road
Where journeyed those two friends, that soft spring day;
But not a sound of melody they heard,
For sadness bitter filled them with dismay.
They talked and reasoned with bewildered breath;
They wondered how such direful things could be;
Nor knew the stranger who so calmly asked,
What great concern is this that troubles thee?
And as they went he told them wondrous things,
Of prophets and their words in Scripture found;
And still they wondered, as sometimes in dreams
We strive to waken and are strangely bound.

The day slipped by, and when the evenglow
Spread its soft radiance round on every side,
They, at the parting of the way, would know
If he would not stay with them and abide,
And share the evening meal and quiet rest,
And further speak to them in that new tongue
Which made their hearts burn deep within their breasts,
When grief and secret doubt their spirits wrung.
O rising towers, built up of agonies!
O little gleam, that trembles and is gone!
You have no place in those fair destinies
Whose smiling lengths stretch upward to the dawn.

And so—but futile pen or chisel fine
Or brush, however rich with shade, or hue,
To give again the simple rites sublime
Through which the holden eyes their Master knew.
Love only can reveal the risen Lord,
When gratitude has left its door ajar
And swept its hearth clean with the spoken word
Which time, nor change, nor circumstance can mar.
The little hills, the wayside, and the bloom,
The dear companionship, so close, so free,
Come in the stillness of the heart's clear noon,
To break the bread of immortality.

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August 2, 1919

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