The Children and Judas

It was dawn upon the fields of Heaven, The dew upon the fence-rail twinkled, And there were seven Stars upon the sky that beamed; And in the grass the cow-bells tinkled, And daisies dreamed, And sweet smells streamed Over the tasselled corn. God lay dimmed in slumber, And Jesus’ warm hair was pillowed on His Father’s breast; Seven disciples like seven points of a star Were rayed about the sleeping Majesties, And Judas was brighter than the rest, Because his spirit had a fiercer sin to burn. His ruddy hair was rimmed with dew, And what he was to me he is to you. There was no sound But the lyric murmur of a Mary, singing Low upon the ground, Where a brook ran upon a secret errand Like a silver hound Slipping beneath the unbound hair of trees; Mary was singing to the least of these, Some Children. All listened, For the breath of her caressed the silence With curves of melody; And hence the very corn awoke to hear, And to inhale the healing psalmody. So because the grass, the daisies, stirred Pleasantly, and light wings whirred As birds arose from nests, And quests of dew and honey went upon, The Children, one by one, moved about, And some would run up the hill, And back again; another seemed to pout, But changed and blew a glad shrill whistle out That pleased the sailing stars. Then Mary ceased her song, And silence fell like shadow on them all. Now amongst the ones who slept Judas raised his head; Sleep never touched his eyes with cool forgetfulness, Instead his soul was fed with sin That never flickered out within. He yawned and bent his knees, And the tongue of a silver bell Shivered above the sleeping Majesties Within the ring of seven, Because there were but six When Judas vaulted the fence-rail Out of the fields of Heaven. And now you could hear Jesus breathe, And God murmur peace upon the wakeful corn. “God!” A spire of frail sound rose from a boyish will, “See God, He’s walking down the hill, See, Mary!” And Mary looked up And saw Judas coming toward them, The sweet hand of a Child in the cup of either hand. “Shall I tell them the truth, Judas, That you are far from God,” said she, “Or will you burn them with your sin, You who are no kin to such as these, And drive them back to me, Crying bitterly?” A smile struggled with his twisted face, But could not give it grace, And the two Children, wary Of the lurid tumult in his breast, Wrested their twined fingers from the gnarled hold of him, And their eyes dim with tears, Ran back to Mary. Judas, the silent shadow of a man, His will as heavy as a fallen tree in a wood, Stood upon the hill, And watched the Children as they ran, Saw them nestle into Mary’s arms, Seeking in the cloudy charms Of her loosened hair, The peace they knew was there. Words crowded in his throat, And he sat upon the hillside With his face between his knees. Now when his face was hidden From the least of these, One, bidden by the helplessness Of the man on the side of the hill, Came from the shelter of Mary’s hair, And minding not her warning touch, Nor her sounding of his name, Knowing he was not chidden much, Went winding an idle way Up the hill, and around and away From the still bowed man. And first he picked a flower Which he threw higher toward the fence-rail. God smiled in His sleep, And Jesus opened His eyes, Put forth a hand for the plucked flower, And hid it in His breast, Yet did not rise nor cease His rest. The Child, Keeping a moody soft eye upon the grey humped figure, Betrayed his mischief in a smile That waxed bigger, bubble-like, and broke into a laugh, And like a thief in the night Crept up the hill to the fence-rail, And peeked. The fence-rail creaked As Jesus turned His face to him: “Poor man, dear boy,” he whispered silverly, “Until he learns to play, To dress his dusty head With ribbons of the rosy day, Never can he share Your early morning passion, Flecked with foamy curls of hair. Would you give him back again To my bosom, cleansed of pain, Spill your living ways of laughing In his muffled ears; At him, and beset him! Splash him, little dears, In your fun,” Jesus bade the boy. “Run!” And the Child winked, Yes, Turned about and ran, Put his flying hands upon the shoulders of the man, And while a star blinked At what he saw, The Child broke the law of sin As he leaped over Judas in the old, old game; Ran screaming down to Mary’s covering hair, But did not linger there; Sped back and bounded over once again, And others captured by the first one’s joy Were startled into rapture And followed, girl and boy, In the glamour of the game, Until the sunken man became Bathed and spattered, Shaken, shattered and half-hidden, In the breaking foam of Children. There came a pause When the Little Ones, breathing Hard about Judas, saw him raise his head, Saw a smile like theirs, wreathing His face, washed with sleep, As though he waked in his bed From the keep of angels. In his eyes remembrance shone Of when he was a boy And looked upon the face of God everywhere; Of when he was himself a toy, A plaything of a God who dreamed Everywhere and everything. And when the Children saw Upon his face the broken law Of sin dissolve like shadows In a ruined wood; When they saw the sun come up Within him, fill his face as the cup Of the world is filled, They spilled their bubbling laughter on the air, And cuddled to his knees As though he, too, were of the least of these. His greedy arms inarticulately stuffed With bloomy charms, His roughed voice sweet With honey of his joy, he began: “Now when I was a boy I had as little as you to give me joy, And made as much of it, Made a world of many mansions Each great enough for God to dwell in; Yes, mansions of my little joy, Even as do you.” “Do we?” asked one thoughtfully, And, “What is mansion?” said another. “And who put the shadows in your face?” “And who took them away again?” “A great light put the shadows in my face.” Said he; “Because I hoarded it within, And boarded it up with sin Of my importance; Because I would not dance with joy of it Like a brook prancing to the sea, But in a deep dark well Sealed the living spirit up; What grace of it I could not keep I would not give away In play, like you.” “Do we?” asked one closer than the rest. “And who is Grace?” from another troubled breast. “And what is sin?” “Sin is a stone,” Dreamed Judas, his chin on a silky head, “Which when a seed is blown Upon it, harbors not The desire of a flower in the seed, But must be broken by the shower, And a deal of shining, And the bold clutch of cold; Grace is the flower Of desire in the seed, And sin is the stone that will not feed the flower.” “Here is a flower,” Said a Child with a daffodil. “And here is a stone, Will you show us how The stone won’t feed the flower?” “Yes, will you now?” chattered all. Judas took the stone in one hand, And in the other raised a black leather bag That sagged from the girdle at his waist. “There is little grace in either, As much in one as in the other,” Murmured Judas, hefting the leather bag. “Oh, I hear something jingle,” said a little blond brother. “Are they sins?” said his sister. “NO!” spoke a voice like the beat of a great wing On the air behind Judas. Then a white light shone upon him, Through him spread the light So that no shadow of him fell Like night around the Children. And Judas looked up, And saw Jesus standing there. “See, Children!” cried Jesus, with many smiles, “What the good Judas has brought you all these years; See, my dears, what he has saved all the stony hilly miles, For you!” And Jesus opened the black leather bag, And brought forth hands full of sweet bread Which he fed to the Children. Then Judas, his hands sticky With crumby kisses of the Little Ones, Went up the hill with the great Lover, Under the cover of His arm, All harm gone from him.