I'll to the wilderness, and can
Find beasts more mercifuU than man;
He liv'd there safe, 'twas his retreat
From the fierce Jew, and Herod's heat;
And forty dayes withstood the fell
And high temptations of hell;
With Seraphims there talked he,
His father's flaming ministrie;
He heav'n'd their walks, and with his eyes
Made those wild shades a Paradise.
Thus was the desert sanctified
To be the refuge of his bride.^
3. Had He not much sympathy with the wild heads ? — " Foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests ; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head." One who would enter- tain such a thought could not be without sympathy towards the dumb creatures. The fox is not a particularly lovable beast; yet the compassionate heart of Christ could enter into the grateful sense of home comfort which banished its brute cares and soothed its savage breast, as it crept into its " hole " for shelter and for rest. He had seen it slink out of sight, but sympathy had made His human heart bolder than His eye, and it, unseen and pitying, had tracked the poor beast to its inmost den. I do not know if anywhere this touching sympathy with " animals unhuman " finds better expression than in these lines of Burns —
Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked,
Wild-eddying swirl, Or, thro' the mining outlet booked,
Down headlong hurl;
' Henry Vaughan.
58 THE GREAT TEXTS OF THE BIBLE
Lisb'ning the doors an' winnocks rattle I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
0' winter war, And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle
Beneath a scar.
Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing! That, in the merry months o' spring. Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o' thee? Where wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing,
An' close thy e'e?
Ev'n you, on murd'ring errands toil'd,
Lone from your savage homes exil'd, —
The blood-stained roost and sheep-cote spoil'd
My heart forgets, While pitiless the tempest wild
Sore on you beats.
" This poem," said no less a critic than Thomas Carlyle, " is worth several homilies on ' Mercy ' ; for it is the voice of Mercy herself." And need I point out that the germ of that poem lies embedded in the sympathetic words of our Lord, "Foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests " ? 1
^ The impression that this touch in the picture conveys to me is rather of desolate isolation. I think of Him enduring a severe struggle, in which sympathy and ministry would have been comfort and help inestimable, conscious of being surrounded by creatures which have no interest in His thought, no sympathy with His feeling — creatures which, if attacked or aroused, would doubtless show themselves conscious of His presence and prove dangerous ; but, being unmolested, simply avoid Him, wander by Him in unconcerned indifference. The laugh of the hyena proclaims and emphasises the lack of sympathy on the part of the wilderness world with the strife and the tragedy of the temptation.2
^ My wilderness, in which I have learned a little of the
meaning of this unsympathetic environment, has perhaps been
the darkened house before which the world's traffic has rattled,
within sight of which the children have played, aixl on the roof
1 H. Rose Rao. ^ A. J. Bam ford.
ST. MARK 59
of which the sparrows have twittered as though no home had been made desolate.
In the hush'd chamber, sitting by the dead, It grates on us to hear the Hood of life Whirl rustling onward, senseless of our loss.^
^ In the cave of Gouda dwelt Clement the hermit. By prayers, washings, flagellation, labours, he fought his temptations. Yet his despair deepened and his soul was well-nigh sped with the torment of temptation. But one morning, awaking from a deep, prolonged sleep, Clement held his breath. He half closed his eyes lest they should frighten the airy guest. Down came robin on the floor ... he was on the hermit's bare foot. Clement closed his eyes and scarce drew his breath in fear of frightening and losing his visitor. " Now, bless thee, sweet bird," sighed the stricken solitary ; " thy wings are music, and thou a feathered ray camedst to light my darkened soul." And so the days rolled on; and the weather got colder, and Clement's despondency was passing away. And presently his cell seemed illuminated with joy. His work pleased him ; his prayers were full of unction ; his psalms of praise. Hosts of little birds followed their crimson leader. And one keen frosty night, as he sang the praises of God to his tuneful psaltery, and his hollow cave rang forth the holy psalmody upon the night, he heard a clear whine, not unmelodious ; it became louder and less in tune. He peeped through the chinks of his rude door, and there sat a great red wolf moaning melodiously with his nose high in the air.
Clement was rejoiced. " My sins are going," he cried, " and the creatures of God are owning me, one after another." And in a burst of enthusiasm he struck up the laud :