He proceeded to an extreme end of the square, raised his hands toward the sky, and as the throngs gathered about, he opened his lips and said, “O Jesus, Who art sitting in the heart of the circle of light, give heed! Look upon this earth from behind the blue dome and see how the thorns have choked the flowers which Thy truth hast planted.

“Oh Good Shepherd, the wolves have preyed upon the weak lamb which Thou hast carried in Thy arms. Thy pure blood has been drawn into the depths of the earth which Thy feet have made sacred. This good earth has been made by Thine enemies into an arena where the strong crushes the weak. The cry of the miserable and the lamentation of the helpless can no longer be heard by those sitting upon the thrones, preaching Thy word. The lambs which Thou hast sent to this earth are now wolves who eat the one which Thou hast carried and blessed.

“The word of light which sprang forth from Thy heart has vanished from the scripture and is replaced with an empty and terrible uproar that frightens the spirit.

“Oh Jesus, they have built these churches for the sake of their own glory, and embellished them with silk and melted gold.… They left the bodies of Thy chosen poor wrapped in tattered raiment in the cold night.… They filled the sky with the smoke of burning candles and incense and left the bodies of Thy faithful worshippers empty of bread.… They raised their voices with hymns of praise, but deafened themselves to the cry and moan of the widows and orphans.

“Come again, Oh Living Jesus, and drive the vendors of Thy faith from Thy sacred temple, for they have turned it into a dark cave where vipers of hypocrisy and falsehood crawl and abound.”

John’s words, strong and sincere, brought murmurs of approval, and the approach of the dignitaries quelled him not. With added courage, strengthened by memories of his earlier experience, he continued, “Come, Oh Jesus, and render accounts with those Caesars who usurped from the weak what is the weak’s and from God what is God’s. The grapevine which Thou hast planted with Thy right hand has been eaten by worms of greed and its bunches have been trampled down. Thy sons of peace are dividing amongst themselves and fighting one with another, leaving poor souls as victims in the wintry field. Before Thy altar, they raise their voices with prayers, saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.’ Will our Father in heaven be glorified when His name is uttered by empty hearts and sinful lips and false tongues? Will peace be on earth while the sons of misery are slaving in the fields to feed the strong and fill the stomachs of the tyrants? Will ever peace come and save them from the clutches of destitution?

“What is peace? Is it in the eyes of those infants, nursing upon the dry breasts of their hungry mothers in cold huts? Or is it in the wretched hovels of the hungry who sleep upon hard beds and crave for one bite of the food which the priests and monks feed to their fat pigs?

“What is joy, Oh Beautiful Jesus? Is it manifest when the Emir buys the strong arms of men and the honour of women for threats of death or for a few pieces of silver? Or is it found in submission, and slaving of body and spirit to those who dazzle our eyes with their glittering badges and golden diadems? Upon each complaint to Thy peace makers, they reward us with their soldiers, armed with swords and spears to step upon our women and children and steal our blood.

“Oh Jesus, full of love and mercy, stretch forth Thy strong arms and protect us from those thieves or send welcome Death to deliver us and lead us to the graves where we can rest peacefully under the watchful care of Thy Cross; there we shall wait for Thy return. Oh Mighty Jesus, this life is naught but a dark cell of enslavement.… It is a playing ground of horrible ghosts, and it is a pit alive with spectres of death. Our days are but sharp words concealed under the ragged quilts of our beds in the fearful darkness of the night. At dawn, these weapons rise above our heads as demons, pointing out to us our whip-driven slavery in the fields.

“Oh Jesus, have mercy upon the oppressed poor who came today to commemorate Thy Resurrection.… Pity them, for they are miserable and weak.”

John’s talk appealed to one group and displeased another. “He is telling the truth, and speaking in our behalf before heaven,” one remarked. And another one said, “He is bewitched, for he speaks in the name of an evil spirit.” And a third commented, “We have never heard such infamous talk, not even from our fathers! We must bring it to an end!” And a fourth one said, whispering into the next man’s ears, “I felt a new spirit in me when I heard him talking.” The next man added, “But the priests know our needs more so than he does; it is a sin to doubt them.” As the voices grew from every direction like the roar of the sea, one of the priests approached, placed John in restraint and turned him immediately to the law, whereupon he was taken to the Governor’s palace for trial.

Upon his interrogation, John uttered not a single word, for he knew that the Nazarene resorted to silence before His persecutors. The governor ordered John to be placed in a prison, where he slept peacefully and heart-cleansed that night, leaning his head on the rock wall of the dungeon.

The next day John’s father came and testified before the Governor that his son was mad, and added, sadly, “Many times have I heard him talking to himself and speaking of many strange things that none could see or understand. Many times did he sit talking in the silence of the night, using vague words. I heard him calling the ghosts with a voice like that of a sorcerer. You may ask the neighbors who talked to him and found beyond doubt that he was insane. He never answered when one spoke to him, and when he spoke, he uttered cryptic words and phrases unknown to the listener and out of the subject. His mother knows him well. Many times she saw him gazing at the distant horizon with glazed eyes and speaking with passion, like a small child, about the brooks and the flowers and the stars. Ask the monks whose teachings he ridiculed and criticized during their sacred Lent. He is insane, Your Excellency, but he is very kind to me and to his mother; he does much to help us in our old age, and he works with diligence to keep us fed and warm and alive. Pity him, and have mercy on us.”

The Governor released John, and the news of his madness spread throughout the village. And when the people spoke of John they mentioned his name with humour and ridicule, and the maidens looked upon him with sorrowful eyes and said, “Heaven has its strange purpose in man.… God united beauty and insanity in this youth, and joined the kind brightness of his eyes with the darkness of his unseen self.”

In the midst of God’s fields and prairies, and by the side of the knolls, carpeted with green grass and beautiful flowers, the ghost of John, alone and restless, watches the oxen grazing peacefully, undisturbed by man’s hardships. With tearful eyes he looks toward the scattered villages on both sides of the valley and repeats with deep sighs, “You are numerous and I am alone; the wolves prey upon the lambs in the darkness of the night, but the blood stains remain upon the stones in the valley until the dawn comes, and the sun reveals the crime to all.”

* A rich abbey in North Lebanon with vast lands, occupied by scores of monks called Alepoans. (Editor’s note.)

WE AND YOU

WE ARE the sons of Sorrow, and you are the

Sons of Joy. We are the sons of Sorrow,

And Sorrow is the shadow of a God who

Lives not in the domain of evil hearts.

We are sorrowful spirits, and Sorrow is

Too great to exist in small hearts.

When you laugh, we cry and lament; and he

Who is seared and cleansed once with his

Own tears will remain pure forevermore.

You understand us not, but we offer our

Sympathy to you. You are racing with the

Current of the River of Life, and you

Do not look upon us; but we are sitting by

The coast, watching you and hearing your

Strange voices.

You do not comprehend our cry, for the

Clamour of the days is crowding your ears,

Blocked with the hard substance of your

Years of indifference to truth; but we hear

Your songs, for the whispering of the night

Has opened our inner hearts. We see you

Standing under the pointing finger of light,

But you cannot see us, for we are tarrying

In the enlightening darkness.

We are the sons of Sorrow; we are the poets

And the prophets and the musicians.