Vi

So on they went and reached their home. God grant no one may ever chance On such a sight. Their little love, Their quiet refuge in the field, Their one and only home and fortune, That place--they could not recognize it-- All he had loved, the little house-- All, all was plundered. ’Mid the ruins They had to spend a wretched night. And Mary quickly hurried down Unto the spring in the ravine, Where once the bright-faced holy guest Had met with her. The heavy grass, The spiny bushes, and the nettles Had thickly grown around the spring. Poor Mary, I am sorry for Thee! Pray, darling, pray at this sad time! Forge well Thy true and holy strength, Forge it with patience and endurance, Grow strong amid Thy bloody tears! She almost slipped within the spring And drowned herself. Then woe to us, Who would have been enshackled slaves! The child would then have grown alone Without his mother; we would know No truth and justice on this earth, No sacred freedom. She remembered And then she smiled despite her woe And sobbed a bit. The holy tears Poured down upon the wellhead there And dried away; and then she felt Much better. But Elizabeth, A widow old in Nazareth, Lived there with her one little son, With John, and she was distant kin Unto them. So in early morning The unhappy woman took her child And fed him and she dressed him up And with her saint she made the trip To Nazareth unto the widow To ask her for some hired work. The little child grew as it should And played together with young John, And he was soon a little boy. The two went out upon the street And played together. There they found Two sticks and took them to their homes And gave the wood unto their mothers Like other children! So they live, Both cheerful and both healthy too-- The people watch them on their way. The little boy one day a stick Picked up from John for his own game, (For John was playing horse alone) And made a cross and bore it home To prove that way unto his mother That he knew how to work in wood. Then Mary met her little son Outside the gate, and lost her courage. She fainted too when she beheld That scaffold cross. “An evil man With foul intent and unkind plan Has taught thee to produce this thing. My dearest child, please drop it, drop it!” The little boy, all innocent, Threw down the sacred mark of death And sobbed aloud and shed boy’s tears For the first time upon the bosom Of his dear mother. This kind act Refreshed her soul. She rose again And took him to a nice cool spot Within the garden on the grass. She kissed him and she gave him cakes, Fresh cakes. And then he fondled her And played and sang a little while And fell asleep to lullabies. Upon her knees he lay and slept. The child slept on in peaceful slumber Just like an angel there in heaven. The mother looked on her one child And shed such quiet, blissful tears, The angel slept so still and lovely, It would be wrong to try to wake him. She could not look at him enough. A single tear just as a flame Fell on him and without delay The child awoke. Sweet Mary quickly Wiped off her tears and tried to smile, Lest he behold them, but she could not Deceive her little son at all. He caught her action, guessed it well And ’gan to sob. She earned a little (Or else the widow lent it to her) That she might buy a book for him. She would have taught him, but she knew Not how to read. She took the boy And sent him to a little school Among the Essenes. And meanwhile She gave him lessons in the good And in the right. Meanwhile young John, The widow’s son, had done the same. The boys went to the school together And studied too, He never played With other children on the street Or ran around. All by himself, He used to sit in the long grass And fashion there with childish hand A little staff; and try to help His holy father in his work.