I think there must have been a crowd that day,
full of the varying moods that sway the throng:
amusement, curiosity, dull doubt,
with here and there the eager, questing heart
that lifts itself to hear the angels' song.
And, in the midst, the smiling smooth disdain
of one who sought to trip the tongue
so full of comfort to a world beset,
racked with old problems, buffeted with pain.
And that one asked a question—four small words—
"Who is my neighbor?" and I think
that all the people there stood still to hear
the Master's answer.
Once again we wait
war-spent and weary, in a world that seems
so far from Christ—so full of hate and fear.
Yet still the loving answer is the same,
always the same—where there are those to hear.
The answer comes—we see there is no other:
Each is His son, and everyone a brother.
