The months of teaching

(The Saviour of the World, Vol V Book V Poem LXIV)

Time sped; the days, weeks, hours, escaped alike
From them would hold and them would haste their flight;
To Christ and His Twelve, how ominous each fall
Of night on the round world! For the Twelve, poor souls,
An awful presage darkened all their days;
More awful, that they might not read the signs
Which the Master, day by day, displayed to them,
Had patience with them for they were so slow,
And Himself went lacking their fond sympathy,—
He, sore bestead by the awful certainties
That hour by hour pressed heavier: day by day,
Was time retrenched for th’ fulfilment of that task
Laid on Him ere He died: How teach these men
The mysteries it was their part to know,
The while they brought no stomach to the task,—
Too wrapped in gloom of coming grief to think,
Or set their minds to comprehend the words
Which the Master spake in solitary wastes
Whither He led them those dull winter months?
And as they go, He notes the silly sheep,
Each flock about its shepherd safe from wolves;
And knows, that not to the wolves would He leave His own;
Should not He lead them still and still provide?

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