Frank S. Gordon

From “Gold in the Desert”

AND who is this that walks

By the sea of Genesseret,

By my heart at ebb tide,

By the surging hosts of many people?

It is He who stills,

Full-glorious in pure serenity,

The rage, the roar of lions,

The sea uplifted cloud-ward.

It is He who is

Music unto me, and sweet

As radiance planet-wafted

On the eve at eventide.

A chord I thought it was I heard;

But it was His words,

Fresh-fallen, unperturbéd by

The din of centuries.

His words are notes unspent,

That hang upon the waters

When twilight-mystery walks,

Empurpled there.

A harmony that moves upon

The rage of waves—

A song unending, unbegun,

Bewitching-borne.

And I forgot that it was hunger-time—

The fawn and the timid doe,

They passed near me

Grazing, unafraid.

And they spoke of no more slaying,

Neither war nor servitude,

Since He who stills the lions

Had passed by.