THE STRANGER AND HIS FRIEND.
By James Montgomery
A POOR, wayfaring man of grief
Hath often crossed me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief
That I could never answer nay;
I had not power to ask his name,
Whither he went, or whence he came,
Yet there was something in his eye
That won my love, I knew not why. Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He enter'd; not a word he spake—
Just perishing for want of bread—
I gave him all; he blessed it, brake,
And ate, but gave me part again;
Mine was an angel's portion then,
For while I fed with eager haste,
The crust was manna to my taste. I spied him where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone;
The heedless water mock'd his thirst;
He heard it, saw it hurrying on;
I ran and raised the sufferer up;
Thrice from the stream he drained my cup,
Dipt, and returned it running o'er;
I drank, and never thirsted more. 'Twas night; the floods were out; it blew
A winter hurricane aloof.
I heard his voice abroad, and flew
To bid him welcome to my roof;
I warm'd, I cloth'd, I cheer'd my guest,
Laid him on my own couch to rest,
Then made the earth my bed. It seem'd
An Eden's garden while I dreamed. Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death,
I found him by the highway side;
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Reviv'd his spirit, and supplied
Wine, oil, refreshment; he was heal'd.
I had myself a wound conceal'd,
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And peace bound up my broken heart. In prison I saw him next, condemned
To meet a traitor's doom at morn;
The tide of lying tongues I stemm'd,
And honor'd him midst shame and scorn.
My friendship's utmost zeal to try,
He ask'd if I for him would die.
The flesh was weak; my blood ran chill;
But the free spirit cried, "I will." Then in a moment, to my view,
The stranger darted from disguise;
The tokens in his hands I knew;
My Saviour stood before mine eyes.
He spake, and my poor name he nam'd:
"Of me thou hast not been ashamed;
These deeds shall thy memorial be;
Fear not, thou didst them unto me."
—James Montgomery.