A Legend By Abram Joseph Ryan

    He walked alone beside the lonely sea,
    The slanting sunbeams fell upon his face,
    His shadow fluttered on the pure white sands
    Like the weary wing of a soundless prayer.
    And He was, oh! so beautiful and fair!
    Brown sandals on His feet — His face downcast,
    As if He loved the earth more than the heav’ns.
    His face looked like His Mother’s — only hers
    Had not those strange serenities and stirs
    That paled or flushed His olive cheeks and brow.
    He wore the seamless robe His Mother made —
    And as He gathered it about His breast,
    The wavelets heard a sweet and gentle voice
    Murmur, “Oh! My Mother” — the white sands felt
    The touch of tender tears He wept the while.
    He walked beside the sea; He took His sandals off
    To bathe His weary feet in the pure cool wave —
    For He had walked across the desert sands
    All day long — and as He bathed His feet
    He murmured to Himself, “Three years! three years!
    And then, poor feet, the cruel nails will come
    And make you bleed; but, ah! that blood shall lave
    All weary feet on all their thorny ways.”
    “Three years! three years!” He murmured still again,
    “Ah! would it were to-morrow, but a will —
    My Father’s will — biddeth Me bide that time.”
    A little fisher-boy came up the shore
    And saw Him — and, nor bold, nor shy,
    Approached, but when he saw the weary face,
    Said mournfully to Him: “You look a-tired.”
    He placed His hand upon the boy’s brown brow
    Caressingly and blessingly — and said:
    “I am so tired to wait.” The boy spake not.
    Sudden, a sea-bird, driven by a storm
    That had been sweeping on the farther shore,
    Came fluttering towards Him, and, panting, fell
    At His feet and died; and then the boy said:
    “Poor little bird,” in such a piteous tone;
    He took the bird and laid it in His hand,
    And breathed on it — when to his amaze
    The little fisher-boy beheld the bird
    Flutter a moment and then fly aloft —
    Its little life returned; and then he gazed
    With look intensest on the wondrous face
    (Ah! it was beautiful and fair) — and said:
    “Thou art so sweet I wish Thou wert my God.”
    He leaned down towards the boy and softly said:
    “I am thy Christ.” The day they followed Him,
    With cross upon His shoulders, to His death,
    Within the shadow of a shelt’ring rock
    That little boy knelt down, and there adored,
    While others cursed, the thorn-crowned Crucified.