Poem March 25, 1939 Issue

He Went Up into a Mountain

ROSA M. TURNER

Was it a mountain where the purple thyme
Crept softly at his feet?
Where airy grasses quivered in the breeze,
With clover blossom sweet?
Where rocky peaks uprose to meet the sky,
And quiet stillness lay
Soft-winged as birds that hover, light as air,
At gentle close of day?

I know not what bright blossoms touched his path,
Fringing the way he trod;
I only know his loving eyes beheld
Man the beloved of God.
In the calm peace of an exalted mount,
Where Love's perfection shone,
The halt, the blind, but touched his Christly robe—
He healed them every one.