A prophet's voice cried in the long-past ages:
Oh, "comfort ye my people, saith your God;"
But priest and sage have sealed the prophet's pages,—
Themselves and all of comfort they defraud.
The people wander still in barren places,
And hunger for the good that 's undenied;
They heavenward turn their sad and weary faces,
And pray—for what already is supplied.
Athirst they wander, tasting bitter waters,
Or stagger on by some mirage allured;
As were their fathers, so the sons and daughters
Are blind to comfort promised and assured.
A woman heard the little children crying,
And viewed the people's faces, drawn with woe;
She, prophet-like, on the unseen God relying,
Revealed anew that source whence healings flow.
A host new-led, the brackish pools forsaking,
Know the good news of fountains flowing pure;
Their thoughts are turned from sickness and heart-aching,
And comforted, find plenishment and cure.
From labors done this Leader hath her rest now,
Still higher tasks her loving thoughts employ;
From her great labors multitudes are blest now,
And learning love, are also finding joy.
