“OH, God,” I cried, “why may I not forget?
These halt and hurt in life’s hard battle throng me yet.
Am I their keeper? Only I? To bear
This constant burden of their grief and care?
Why must I suffer for the other’s sin?
Would God my eyes had never opened been!”
And the Thorn-crowned and Patient One replied:
“THEY THRONGED ME, TOO. I TOO HAVE SEEN.”
“But, Lord, Thy other children go at will,”
I said, protesting still.
“They go unheeding, but these sick and sad,
These blind and orphan, yea, and those that sin,
Drag at my heart. For them I serve and groan.
Why is it? Let me rest, Lord. I HAVE tried.”
He turned and looked at me—
“BUT I HAVE DIED.”
“But, Lord, this ceaseless travail of my soul!
This stress! This often fruitless toil
These souls to win!
They are not mine. I brought not forth this host
Of needy creatures, struggling, tempest-tossed.
They are not mine!”
He looked at them — the look of One Divine,
Then turned and looked at me: “BUT THEY ARE MINE.”
“Oh, God,” I cried, “I understand at last.
Forgive. And henceforth I will bond slave be
To Thy least, weakest vilest ones;
I would not more be free!”
He smiled and said:
“IT IS TO ME.”
L. R. Meyer.