Each week we carefully curate a collection of poems that resonate with the lectionary readings for that week (Narrative Lectionary and Revised Common Lectionary). Enjoy these poems for the 4th Sunday After Pentecost!
*** Revised Common Lectionary ***
Lectionary Reading: Genesis 21:8-21
CLASSIC POEM:
Hagar in the Wilderness (Excerpt)
Edwin Arnold
A weary waste of blank and barren land,
A lonely, lonely sea of shifting sand,
A golden furnace gleaming overhead,
Scorching the blue sky into bloody red;
And not a breath to cool,—and not a breeze
To stir one feather of the drooping trees;
Only the desert wind with hungry moan,
Seeking for life to slay, and finding none;
Only the hot Sirocco’s burning breath,
Spangled with sulphur-flame, and winged with death;
No sound, no step, no voice, no echo heard,
No cry of beast, no whirring wing of bird;
The silver-crested snake hath crept away
From the fell fury of that Eastern day;
The famished vultures by the failing spring
Droop the foul beak and fold the ragged wing;
And lordly lions, ere the chase be done,
Leave the blank desert to the desert-sun.
Ah! not alone to him—turn thee and see
Beneath the shadow of yon balsam tree
A failing mother of a fainting son
Resting to die deserted and alone.
Turn thee and mark the mother’s gentle care
Stripping the fillet from her silken hair,
So it may fall to shade his feeble frame,
A glossy curtain from the noon-day flame;
See—at her feet the shrivelled flagon cast,
The last drop drained, the sweetest and the last.
Drained at her darling’s lip to still his cries,
A mother’s free and final sacrifice.
Look—she hath taken it, and yet again
Presses the flagon—presses—but in vain.
The scrip is emptied and the flagon dry,
And nothing left them but the leave to die.
To die—and one so young and one so true,
And both so beautiful and brave to view:
She—with her braided locks more black than night,
And eye so darkly, deeply, wildly bright;
He—with his slender limbs and body bare
And small hands tangled in his mother’s hair,
And there to whiten on the desert-sands,
A landmark for the laden desert bands!
That thought is stamping anguish on her brow,
That dread hath taught her what she utters now.
“Son of my soul! the happy days are done;
“Thy little course and mine are nearly run;
“The white tents wave on Kirjath-Arba’s plain,
“No home for us—no resting place again:
“Before yon orb is sunken from the sky
“Together in the desert we must die.
“Must die, my boy, and I, alas! can give,
“To make death lighter, or to help thee live,
“No greater gift, no better boon than this,
“A mother’s love—a mother’s fondest kiss.
“Oh! might I drain for thee this bitter bowl,
“Or take one torment from thy parting soul,
“How would I die a thousand deaths for thee,
“And rack mine own to set thy spirit free.
“But I must watch thy failing fevered breath,
“And on this bosom nurse thee into death;
“Must mark thy sinking heart and closing eye,
“A pang more cruel than death’s agony.
“What—weepest thou to lose, my gentle son,
“The pleasant promise of thy life begun?
“Weep, if thou wilt! no mocking eye shall view;
“None but thy mother’s,—and she weepeth too.
“Alas! how often at the end of day
“Sadly and gladly I have seen thee play;
“Or with bright eye and brow of anxious care
“The tiny arrows for thy bow prepare.
“And thou wouldst pluck the he-goat by the beard,
“And drag him, laughing, from the startled herd,
“Or leap rejoicing from thy father’s side
“To chase the leopard in his course of pride.
“And in her tent thy mother sat the while,
“Marking thy playful mood with thoughtful smile;
“For then I feared that stubbornness of soul
“That mocked at bonds, and might not brook control:
“I knew from hand so daring, heart so free,
“That length of days was not a gift for thee:
“Yet deemed I never that thy father’s hand
“Would rise to drive us from that happy land;
“That he could doom us to the desert plain,
“And give thee life to take that life again.
“Nay! do not curse him, boy, for curses come
“Back on the sender, like an eagle home;
“And he is wise and gentle, and will mourn
“More than we wot of when he knows us gone.
“Not thy fond father robs thee of thy life,
“But she—the bitter-hearted Hebrew wife.
“Her hate hath doomed us to this deep distress,
“And made our grave in this drear wilderness.
“Alas! alas! the proudest palms that grow
“Will shade the hewer who must lay them low.
“She could not brook thy bold Egyptian blood,
“The untamed workings of thy wayward mood;
“She could not hope to tear my child from me
“With tongue so bitter and with eye so free;
“And by the throne of Pharaoh! though that eye
“Hath sent us hitherward alone to die,
“Though thou must forfeit to the Hebrew wife
“Thy father’s love, thy mother, and thy life,
“Yet could I love thee more than I have loved,
“Or better prove that love than I have proved,
“It would be, son of mine! that thou didst scorn
“The yoke so basely by thy mother borne;
“That thou didst mock thy little tyrant’s rage,
“Nor own my slavery thine heritage.”
Yet was she speaking; but the cry of joy
Burst from the bosom of the dying boy.
His eager finger pointed to the plain,
His eye had light, his cheek its life again.
“Look, mother! look! we will not die to-day;
“Look where the water glistens! come away!”
[ READ THE FULL POEM ]
*** This poem is in the public domain,
and may be read in a live-streamed worship service.
CONTEMPORARY POEM:
Hagar Writes a Letter to Sarah
as a Cathartic Exercise
Suggested by Her Therapist
Mohja Kahf
SNIPPET:
Dear Sarah, life has made us enemies
But it doesn’t have to be that way.
…
[ READ THE FULL POEM ]
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