Poems (Angier)/The Walk to Emmaus
THE WALK TO EMMAUS.
O'er fair Judea's vine-clad hills, At early morn there strayedTwo 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 fellA 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 sayThat 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 clearThan 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 bearOf a risen Saviour's dying love, That day recorded there.