WILBUR UNDERWOOD

"The Cattle of His Hand"

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All night long through the starlit air and the stillness,

Through the cool wanness of dawn and the burning of noontide,

Onward we strain with a mighty resounding of hoof-beats.

Heaven and earth are ashake with the terrible trampling;

Wild, straying feet of a vast and hastening army;

Wistful eyes that helplessly seek one another.

Hushed is the dark to hear the plaint of our lowing,

Mournful cry of the dumb-tired hearts within us,

Faint to death with thirst and the gnawing of hunger.

Day by day through the dust and heat have we thirsted;

Day by day through stony ways have we hungered;

Naught but a few bitter herbs that grew by the wayside.

What we flee that is far behind in the darkness,

Where the place of abiding for us, we know not;

Only we hark for the voice of the Master Herdsman.

Many a weary day must pass ere we hear it,

Blown on the winds, now close, now far in the distance,

Deep as the void above us and sweet as the dawn-star.