Poem January 2, 1937 Issue

Glorified

F. INA BURGESS

I have so often thought of him—
That man of old who was born blind,
Who never once had seen the dawn
Pour down the dusky purple hills
Like liquid gold spilled slowly from
The brimming goblet of the sun;
Who never once had watched unfold
The petaled beauty of a flower,
Or seen the pearly loveliness
A new moon forms against the night.

The splendors of the universe
He had not viewed through sight of eye;
His parents' faces he knew not,
Nor smile of those he counted friends;
Yet, had he witnessed each of these
And more, they all could not compare
With those sweet moments which were his
When the Beloved spoke to him.

The Master's voice, compassionate
And winning in its tenderness,
Expressing only love and truth
So rich in Spirit's holy power,
Bore witness to God's perfect work
And bade the yearning one to see.

In that sublime and wondrous hour,
All earthly grandeur must have seemed
A radiant promise of the real,
To him who had been glorified
To feel the pure, transcendent power
Of conscious fellowship with Christ!

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