Kibroth-Hattaavah by Arthur W. Spaulding

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Aug 15, 1912

Kibroth-Hattaavah

By Arthur W. Spaulding

ARTHUR W. SPAULDING

I saw the sun go down in the west, Red and shot with flame; And, gripped by a passion I could not name, I cried to it, “Set! set, O sun! And leave me the knowledge the day is done; For that the day is done is best.”

And a storm swept down, a sudden gust,— The rain blown, and the hail,— And the trees bowed over before the gale, And the flocks sought shelter before the pelt. “Blow, O tempest!” I cried; for I felt That the vanishing sun and the passing day, The flames’ last stabs and the tempest’s sway, Were filling the graves of lust,— Filling the graves in the wilderness, When the fateful day was done: The flesh unchewed that the clamors won, The prayers unuttered that were to bless.

Prince of the blood and mixed of race, They lie in the desert way. They talked of the Land, but they lived for the day, And the day’s full meed was won at last: The lusts forgotten, the murmurings past, They met death face to face.

A tumult of voices smites the ear: To-day, as they shouted then, So shout the frenzied and blinded men That have dragged the reluctant foot in vain, When the heart is behind in Egypt’s plain. And not till the cries of the proud are stilled, And not till the graves of lust are filled, Shall the land of promise near.

So to God in the guiding cloud I pray (In your presence, brothers, who be not blind): By the omen of sun and of rushing wind, Bring, Lord, the close of the day.

Hendersonville, N. C.