Poems (Angier)/The Walk to Emmaus

by Annie Lanman Angier

THE WALK TO EMMAUS.

O'er fair Judea's vine-clad hills,
 At early morn there strayed
Two weary, wayworn travellers,
 In pilgrim's garb arrayed.

Of many a furrow, deep and long,
 Their brows the traces bore,
But grief was in their bosoms now
 They ne'er had felt before.

And on, with weary step and slow,
 They plod their homeward way,—
Till lengthening shadows o'er the hill
 Bespeak the closing day.

Then one the mournful silence broke,
 While on his breast there fell
A tear, that spoke of agony
 He had not dared to tell.

"Brother! thou dost remember well
 The words the Prophet spake;
That on this day from death's dark sleep
 To life He would awake.

'Tis true, in Joseph's new-made tomb,
 Where his loved form had lain,
The search the holy women made
 For their dear Lord was vain.

Yet some who curse His holy name—
 Ah! I have heard them say
That hands of those He called His friends
 Have borne Him hence away.

And so, with doubts my mind is torn,
 When fain I would believe;
What think'st thou, brother, can it be
 That He would thus deceive?"

While these dark fears their bosoms swell,
 More thoughtful grows their mood;
When on a sudden, by their side
 A meek-eyed stranger stood.

With gentle voice He asked them why
 With tears their eyes were dim?
Why on the balmy breath of eve
 Was borne no sacred hymn?

Then one the simple truth explained,
 That Christ, their Lord, was dead,
And they had seen the sepulchre
 In which their Hope was laid.

Then nearer to their side He drew,
 Soft were His words and mild,
As on their ears the tale He poured
 Of Mary's sinless child.

'Twas meet that He should drain the cup
 That to His lips was given.
For with His dying groan He cried—
 "I ope the way to heaven"?

And now the sun's last golden beams
 Are fading in the west,
And they have reached their village home
 And gained their place of rest.

With haste the table soon is spread,
 Though frugal be their fare;
They turn to bid their Guest partake,
 When lo! what sight was there!

Where just before the stranger stood,
 Disguised in humble mien,
A form more bright, a seraph form,
 With radiant brow was seen.

He takes the bread, a blessing craves
 In tones more sweet and clear
Than ever fell from human lips,
 Or broke on mortal ear.

There lingers on the hallowed air
 A voice, 'tis Mercy's own;
And while they breathless pause to hear
 The stranger-Guest is flown.

But ever in their glowing hearts,
 Did they the story bear
Of a risen Saviour's dying love,
 That day recorded there.