LIMBO

The ancient greyness shifted

Suddenly and thinned

Like a mist upon the moors

Before a wind.

An old, old prophet lifted

A shining face and said:

"He will be coming soon.

The Son of God is dead;

He died this afternoon."

A murmurous excitement stirred

All souls.

They wondered if they dreamed,

SAVE ONE OLD MAN WHO SEEMED

NOT EVEN TO HAVE HEARD.

And Moses, standing

Hushed them all to ask

if any had a welcome song

prepared.

If not, would David take the task?

And if they cared

Could not the three young

children sing

The "Benedicite," the canticle

of praise

They made when God kept them

from perishing

In the fiery blaze?

A breath of spring surprised them

Stilling Moses' words.

No one could speak, remembering

The first fresh flowers

The little singing birds.

Still others thought of

Fields new ploughed

Or apple trees

All blossom-boughed.

Or some the way a dried bed

Fills with water

Laughing down green hills.

The fisherfold dreamed of the foam

On bright blue seas,

THE ONE OLD MAN WHO HAD NOT

STIRRED

REMEMBERED HOME.

And there He was

Splendid as the morning sun

And fair

As only God is fair.

And they, confused with joy

Knelt to adore

Seeing He wore

Five crimson stars

He never had before.

No canticle at all was sung..

None toned a psalm or raised

A greeting song.

A SILENT MAN ALONE

of all that throng

Found tongue--

Not any other.

Close to His heart

When the embrace was done

Old Joseph said:

"HOW IS YOUR MOTHER,

HOW IS YOUR MOTHER, SON?"

By Sister Mary Ada