HE stood upon the height and saw The glory of a waking world Along whose delicate, high peaks The rosy tips of dawn uncurled. Such loveliness was there, such peace, Such silver rivers singing by, Such golden plenty on the plain, Such sweet smoke homing toward the sky— Did heavenly meadows grow more fair Than these where meek-eyed cattle trod? Might man more easy anywhere Come nearer to the smile of God? Yet, as He gazed, with laggard step Man's sad processional crept by. Its troubled murmur rose and filled The dawn-clear temple of the sky. "Though earth be bountiful they faint, Though morn be beautiful they die." So whispered Satan, while the wind Shrilled with a far and bitter cry. And suddenly the Master saw His Kingdom come—not far away Through anguished years, but near and plain— Sad man made happy in a day! "These be Thy people," Satan spoke. "Wilt Thou not bring them peace, great Lord?"— What sigh was that which heaven heard? "Not peace, O Satan, but a sword!" |