“Ye Shall Be Hated Of All Men”
THE MAT
It was on a winter’s morning,
In the days of old—
In his cell sat Father Henry,
Sorrowful and cold.
“O my Lord, I am aweary,”
In his heart he spake,
“For my brethren scorn and hate me
For Thy blessed sake.
“If I had but one to love me,
That were joyful cheer—
One small word to make me sunshine
Through the darksome year!
“But they mock me and despise me
Till my heart is stung—
Then my words are wild and bitter,
Tameless is my tongue.”
Then the Lord said, “I am with thee,
Trust thyself to Me,
Open thou thy little window,
Mark what thou shalt see.”
Then a piteous look and wistful
Father Henry cast
Out into the dim old cloister,
And the wintry blast.
Was it that a friend was coming,
By some angel led?
No! A great hound, wild and savage,
Round the cloister sped.
Some old mat that lay forgotton,
Seized he on his way—
Tore it, tossed it, dragged it wildly,
Round the cloister grey.
“Lo, the hound is like thy brethren,”
Spake the voice he knew;
“If thou art the mat, beloved,
What hast thou to do?”
Meekly then went Father Henry,
And the mat he bare,
To his little cell to store it,
As a jewel rare.
Many a winter and a summer,
Through those cloisters dim,
Did he thenceforth walk rejoicing,
And the Lord with him.
And when bitter words would sting him,
Turned he to his cell,
Took his mat and looked upon it,
Saying, “All is well.
“He who is the least and lowest
Needs but low to lie;
Lord, I thank Thee, and I praise Thee,
That the mat am I.”
Then he wept, for in the stillness
His Beloved spake,
“Thus was I the least and lowest,
Gladly, for thy sake.
“Lo, My face to shame and spitting,
Did I turn for thee;
If thou art the least and lowest,
Then remember Me.”
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