THE CAPTIVE MAID

The Syrians by companies had gone out
And captive brought away from Israel
A little maid to live in servitude,
A friendless orphan in a foreign land.
I love thy story, little captive maid;
The Book's brief chronicle a volume speaks,
And humbles us with wonder and amaze.
Did angels guide thee, or that prophet tell
Of God to grateful ears that felt His love
And turned to hear the message: Child, be good,
For He that loves thee is the perfect One?
Or did that thought, of evil innocent,
Alone, a captive, hear God's voice direct,
And unafraid, unquestioning, obey?
She reasoned not, These people did me wrong.
She counted not her loss; nor asked release.
Her life was being good—naught interfered.
Naaman suffered, and his household mourned;
She prayed to God her master might be with
The prophet in Samaria to be healed,—
Tender, faith-lit, no thought of self. One took
Her words, and brought them to her master's ears;
A king was stirred to pour his treasure out
And send an escort. So they journeyed forth
With store and raiment, soldiers brave to guard,—
Rough men, who thought no more of captive maids
Than just the slave-mart's price,—and traversed lands
Where lawlessness made difficult the way.
A strange request they brought to Israel's king,
Who trembled on his throne, and rent his clothes,
Unwitting that a child had prayed to God,
And that His prophet waited to obey.
God answers prayer. Elisha called the Syrian,
Humbled and healed him, that it might be known
There lived a prophet there in Israel.
Sweet little maid, with heart no wrongs could bind,—
In slavery freer than the frightened king,
The captain of the host to Rimmon bowing,
Soldiers bound to strife—all slaves! O maiden,
Could freedom give the world a truer token
Than that brief prayer of thine?