They say that in the Holy Land there lives
An ancient olive tree which was alive
When he was here. Today as then it gives
A welcome shade. It almost seems to strive
To whisper memories. If it but could—
So long ago! So many stories run
Through memory, the final story would
Perhaps be mixed and molded into one.
"Within his grandsire's gentle arms he lay,
And as he felt their loving strength enfold
He begged again the story of that day,
The well-loved story he'd so oft been told.
The old man's words came softly: 'I was blind.
I thought that light was like the honeyed sweet
My mother gave me. She was always kind
And guided well my childhood's stumbling feet.
And then he came! I still can feel his hand
Upon my head. His words so kind, so mild,
"Receive thy sight," that gentle, calm command.
When first I saw his radiant face, he smiled.
And then he stayed nearby, and all my life
Goes back and forward to that glorious night.
He sent the people home—and all the strife
And crowds were gone with evening's fading light.
I lay within his arms, John at his feet,
The others grouped in quiet talk were seen.
I heard one say, "For me the highest seat."
Six years of blindness make the hearing keen.
I felt the Master stir, then heard his call.
His tender, loving call, ring crisp and clear.
The group arose ashamed. So straight and tall
They blotted out the sky as they came near.'"
The ancient branches of the olive trees,
We hear them murmur in the evening breeze.
