Poetry Archives

To whom the heavy burden clings,
  It yet may serve him like a staff;
One day the cross will break in wings,
  The sinner laugh a holy laugh.

The dwarfed Zacchaeus climbed a tree,
  His humble stature set him high;
The Lord the little man did see
  Who sought the great man passing by.

Up to the tree he came, and stopped:
  “To-day,” he said, “with thee I bide.”
A spirit-shaken fruit he dropped,
  Ripe for the Master, at his side.

Sure never host with gladder look
  A welcome guest home with him bore!
Then rose the Satan of rebuke
  And loudly spake beside the door:

“This is no place for holy feet;
  Sinners should house and eat alone!
This man sits in the stranger’s seat
  And grinds the faces of his own!”

Outspoke the man, in Truth’s own might:
  “Lord, half my goods I give the poor;
If one I’ve taken more than right
  With four I make atonement sure!”

“Salvation here is entered in;
  This man indeed is Abraham’s son!”
Said he who came the lost to win—
  And saved the lost whom he had won.