Poem December 3, 1966 Issue

THE NIGHT OF NICODEMUS

Eugene W. Moss

Here I am: helpless, defeated, hopeless.
In my night of doubt and despair,
I look, down through the centuries,
to Nicodemus of old, who in his night
went to Jesus.

How I love that lonely, wisdom-seeking Pharisee;
he brought my question to the Master.
(I too am now old and scarred.)
So I listen carefully
as Jesus instructs Nicodemus and me
in the delicate art of regeneration.

Now even, but especially now in my maturity,
I must be born again—of Spirit.
I'm not overpowered.
I'm not helplessly surrendering to evil.
I am deliberately and willingly yielding to Spirit,
cleansing thought in pure water,
learning to live love—even in the face of hate.

Think of the change in Nicodemus.
With fingers of love he fashioned his gift,
"a mixture of myrrh and aloes," and offered it,
tenderly, at that terrible hour
when many faithful followers had deserted Jesus,
when total defeat seemed certain.

Now, in my night, should I desert the Christ?
Shouldn't I, too, drop every mean,
Pharisaical belief?
Then, regenerated, I too can offer
my gift of love.

Eugene W. Moss

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