The Preacher Poem by Alexander Anderson

The spirit of God fell on him, and he pass'd
From out the common bounds wherein we move,
And like a mantle round his life he cast
The grandeur of his mission from above.


Yet his was no dull eye that look'd askance
In scorn on daily human things, but bright
With all the beaming virtue of a glance
That took its brightness from his Master's light.


He leant not unto narrow bound or goal,
But in the wisdom of the teaching years
Grew up large-hearted with a yearning soul
For all the faith in human love and tears.


Rough was his brow and cheek, but rougher still
The hand you clasp'd, yet in its kindly heat
Was felt the endeavour, and the quiet will
That walks through life with firm, unshaken feet.


He knew his mission, and like Paul he preach'd
With throbbing lips, and eyes whose holy ire
Lit up at all that from of old hath teach'd
The brute-like limit and the clay desire.


But when he knelt beside the dying bed
Of some worn one to whom this world was naught,
Around him like celestial light he shed
The love and mercy of the faith he taught.


Ah, how the features wore to placid peace,
As in mute thankfulness that restless life
Should thus in such a golden vision cease,
That but before was full of pain and strife.


This was the faith he held as best and first—
The faith of heart and life; the other still
Lay in all toil and labour, and the thirst
Of science and her miracles of skill.


And these two in him ever living on,
Made music, even as two chords that blend
Each into each, making a glorious tone
That led his footsteps unto fruitful end.


The beggar came, and not in vain, to crave,
And heard him whisper at his lowly door—
'The poor is always with you,' and he gave
With open hand a pittance from his store.


The very children left their innocent mirth
In summer nights to sit upon his knee,
And hear him talk of all the brighter earth
Above our own, and Christ he soon would see.


He sees him now; for at His master's will,
With spirit earnest, trusting, strong, and brave,
He pass'd into his endless rest; and still
The sexton points you out the preacher's grave.