Belmont chronicle. [volume] (St. Clairsville, Ohio) 1855-1973, 1879-09-11
POETRY.
Stone The WOman-Let the Man
go Free.

The air is golden, and azure sky,
Bends DER the lovely land.%he trees beyond
Make whispered music with soft, clashing
arms,
And blend their low tones with the voice OF
streams,
The sigh of winds, the call of mating birds,
Tie s ant laughter in tie rear ers' fields,
The gentle footballs, as the camels pass.
The streets are silent, for the idle drones
Who bring no hont y to The hum'n hive,
But swarm at corners and at open doors,
Eager for anything to stimulnte
The dull monotOny of idle hours,
Have sought the temple where the Savior sits,
To calmly crticise his mode OF speech,
And hear if He, an obscure NaZarlne,
Can fashion il with such strange subtleness,
As thrills, men say, the eOldest list'ning heart.
But now the dreamful silentness is Ger;
A group of Scribes and Pharisees appear,
And in their midst wretched woman moves,
A blot upon tue beauty OF the day.
Her head is bent in uttermost despair,
Her hands are clasped upon her beating
breast,
And burning tears are falling down the cheeks
Where conscious sin has sent the rushing
blood.
Shudders within its desecrated shrine,
Stained and unutterably dishonored,
SO sad sight, so -loathsomely deformed,
That angels weep and tremble as they gaze.
They reached the temple; in a moment more
The sinner stands before the Savior's face.
How wonderful that face, the burning tongue
OF seraphim would fail to picture it.
Diyinely sweet, unfathomably calm,
Unutterably tender: in the eyes
Patience so godlike and compassionate,
a look Of Mary round the sacred Ups
That wear sign of WEAKNESS repressed,
As though pain slept little back.
How young He seems, and yet He seems not
young,
But grave and gentle, as if many cares
Pressed on an infinitely loving heart.
The trembling woman kneels before her Judge,
And clasps her hands upon her guilty face,
Never before seemed purity so pure,
Never before was sin so horrible.
She did not plead, she knelt there clothed in
shame
An outcast and degraded-weeping Fnelt,
Waiting the words-''The woman must be
stoned"
The crowd draws near to hear what Jesus says,
And silence steals upon the multitude,
The sunlight fills athwart the Temple floor;
Through open dOorways signs the fragrant
wind;
The little children patter with soft steps
In quiet corners, knowing not as yet
Lifes tragedy, intense and passionate.
But Jesus speaks; the Temple grows more
hushed,
And watching angels thrill with endless love.
LET him. he says, ''who knows that he is
pure
Cast tie first stone at her." The men look up
Startled little; then they hang their heads,
And bushes gather on the brows unused
To show such color. Slowly, one by one,
Without word, they stink abashed away,
Till Jesua and the woman stand apart.
$50, sin no more" He says. And forth She
goes
To mend the ruined beauty of her life,
To wash her soul in penitential tears
And ever after with undying love
To follow Christ, lamenting.
But where is he, the sharer in her guilt?
The man whom God appointed as the head,
The shield of woman in her weaknesses-
Whom she should look upon as less than God,
But noble, lovable and worthy trust,
Incapable of wronging that weak heart
That seeks its strength in meekly loving him.
Is he, not, too, in deepest grief and shame,
Filled to o'eIfiOwing with an agony
That can not, like the woman find relief
In tears that scorch and dry upon the cheek?
Is he not, too, surrounded by group
That look on him with loathing, holding up
His shamed manhood, his insulted God,
The ruin wrought upon aDother's soul,
Heaping upon HIM stinging words of scorn
That, burning in his ears, awake the sense
OF utter degradation?
A sumptuous feast is spread upon his board
And joyous guests are pledging him in wine,
He's clothed in purple, and the flashing light
OF diamonds sparkle on his breast and hands,
Odorous scents are stealing from his robes,
And watching slaves are hanging on his looks,
The dancing girls are waiting in the halls
With Tyre and sistrum to beguile the hour
And touch the senses into soft delight;
And half pleased smiles are playing round his
lips,
And conscious laughter ripples on the air,
And pleasant banter lightly tells the tale,
And friendship merrily accuses him
OF having won a woman from her lord.
Yes, stone the woman-let the man go free!
Draw back your skirts lest they perchance
may touch
Her garments as she passes; but to him
Put forth willing hand to clasp with his
tndL ltu ucI W anu
Shut up from her the sacred ways of toll
That she no more may win an honest meal,
But ope to him all honorable paths,
Where he may win distinction. Give to him
Fair pressed-down measures of life's sweetest
joys.
Pass her, . maiden, with pure, proud face,
If she puts out poor, polluted palm;
But lay thy hand in his on bridal day
And swear to cling to him with wifely love
And tender reverence. Trust him who led
a sister woman to fearful fate.
Yes, stone the woman, let the man go free!
Let one soul suffer for the guilt of two
1t is the doctrine OF a hurried world
Too out of breath for holding balances,
Where nice distinctions and iniustices
Are calmly weighed. Bnt ah, how will it be
On that strange day of final fire and flame
When men shall wither with mystic fear
And all shall stand before the one true Judge?
Shall sex make THEN a difference i'll sin?
Shall He, the searcher of the hidden heart,
In His eternal and divine decree
Condemn the woman and forgive the man?
Irish Monthly.
1