The Sword

One of the seventy had a sword The day that Christ was crucified: He followed where they led his Lord, The man that could not stand aside.

When that first hammer-stroke rang loud, And left and right the rabble swayed, He flashed from out the staring crowd, He died upon the Roman blade.

His fruitless deed, his noteless name, By careless Rome were never told. Now shall we give him praise or blame? Account him base, acclaim him bold?

Was he the traitor to his Lord, Deeper than Peter that denied, The loving soul that took the sword, The man that would not stand aside?

Or did the glorious company Of Michael’s sworded seraphim With chivalrous high courtesy Rise up to make a place for him?