Part 34

But why is it contributed? Is there in it any intimation or assertion of a definite purpose?

If we may assume that Patience is what she seems to be—a voice from another world, then indeed we may discern a purpose. She has a message to deliver, and she gives the impression that she is a messenger.

“Do eat that which I offer thee,” she says. “’Tis o’ Him. I but bear the pack apacked for the carry o’ me by Him.”

Constantly she speaks of herself as bearing food or drink in her words. “I bid thee eat,” she said to one, “and rest ye, and eat amore, for ’tis the wish o’ me that ye be filled.” The seed, the loaf, the cup, are frequently used symbolically when referring to her communications.

“There be a man who buyeth grain and he telleth his neighbor and his neighbor’s neighbor, and lo, they come asacked and clamor for the grain. And what think ye? Some do make price, and yet others bring naught. But I be atelling ye, ’tis not a price I beg. Nay, ’tis that ye drink my cup.”

“’Tis truth o’ earth that ’tis the seed aplanted deep that doth cause the harvester for to watch. For lo, doth he to hold the seed athin (within) his hand, ’tis but a seed. And aplanted he doth watch him in wondering. Verily do I say, ’tis so with me. I be aplanted deep; do thee then to watch.”

And with greater significance she has exclaimed: “Morn hath broke, and ye be the first to see her light. Look ye wide-eyed at His workings. He hath offered ye a cup.”

It is thus she announces herself to be a herald of a new day, a bearer of tidings divinely commissioned.

What, then, is her message? For answer it may be said that it is at once a revelation, a religion and a promise. Whatever we may think of the nature of this phenomenon, Patience herself is a revelation, and there are many revelations in her words. The religion she presents is not a new one. It is as old as that given to the world nineteen centuries ago; for fundamentally it is the same. It is that religion, stripped of all the doctrines and creeds and ceremonials and observances that have grown up about it in all the ages since His coming, and paring it down to the point where it can be expressed by the one word—Love. Love, going out to fellow man, to all nature and overflowing toward God.

In the consideration of this religion let us begin at the beginning, at the ground, so to speak, with this expression of love for the loveless:

Ah, could I love thee, Thou, the loveless o’ the earth, And pry aneath the crannies Yet untouched by mortal hand To send therein this love o’ mine— Thou creeping mite, and winged speck, And whirled waters o’ the mid o’ sea Where no man seeth thee? And could I love thee, the days Unsunned and laden with hate o’ sorrying? Ah, could I love thee, Thou who beareth blight; And thou the fruit bescorched And shrivelling, to fall unheeded ’Neath thy mother-stalk?

Ah, could I love thee, love thee? Aye, for Him who loveth thee, And blightest but through loving; Like to him who bendeth low the forest’s king To fashion out a mast.

Love for everything is the essence of her thought and of her song. And as she thus sings for the loveless, so she sings for the wearied ones and the failures of the earth:

I’d sing. Wearied word adropped by weary ones, And broked mold afashioned out by wearied hands; A falter-song sung through tears o’ wearied one; A fancied put o’ earth’s fair scene Afallen at awry o’ weariness. Love’s task Unfinished, aye, o’ertaken by sore weariness— O’ thee I’d sing.

Aye, and put me such an songed-note That earth, aye, and heaven, should hear; And thou, aye all o’ ye, the soul-songs O’ my brothers, be afinished, At the closing o’ my song.

Aye, and wearied, aye and wearied, I’d sing. I’d sing for them, the loved o’ Him, And brothers o’ thee and me. Amen.

This is the prelude and now comes the song:

I choose o’ the spill O’ love and word and work, The waste o’ earth, to build.

Ye hark unto the sages, And oft a way-singer’s song Hath laden o’erfull o’ truth, And wasteth ’pon the air, And falleth not unto thine ear.

Think ye He scattereth whither E’en such an grain? Nay. And do ye seek o’ spill And put unto thy song, ’Twill fill its emptiness.

Ye seek to sing but o’ thy song, And ’tis an empty strain. ’Tis need O’ love’s spill for to fill.

The spill of earth, the love that goes unnoticed and unappreciated, the words that are unheard or unheeded, the work that seems to be for naught—none of these is waste. A song it is for the wearied ones, the heart-sick and discouraged, “the loved of Him and brothers of thee and me.”

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And yet she calls them waste but to show that they are not. “The waste of earth,” she says, “doth build the Heaven,” and this is the theme of much of her song.

Earth hath filled it up o’ waste and waste. The sea’s fair breast, that heaveth as a mother’s, Beareth waste o’ wrecks and wind-blown waste. The day doth hold o’ waste. The smiles that die, that long to break, The woes that burden them already broke, ’Tis waste, ah yea, ’tis waste. And yet, and yet, at some fair day, E’en as the singing thou dost note Doth bound from yonder hill’s side green As echo, yea, the ghost o’ thy voice; So shall all o’ this to sound aback Unto the day. Of waste, of waste, is heaven builded up.

It is to the waste of earth that she speaks in this message of love and sympathy:

Ah, emptied heart! The weary o’ the path! How would I to fill ye up o’ love! I’d tear this lute, that it might whirr A song that soothed thy lone, awearied path. I’d steal the sun’s pale gold, And e’en the silvered even’s ray, To treasure them within this song That it be rich for thee. From out the wastes o’ earth I’d seek And catch the woe-tears shed, That I might drink them from the cup And fill it up with loving. From out the hearts afulled o’ love Would I to steal the o’er-drip And pack the emptied hearts of earth. The bread o’ love would I to cast Unto thy bywayed path, and pluck me From the thornèd bush that traileth o’er The stepping-place, the thorn, that brothers O’ the flesh o’ me might step ’pon path acleared. Yea, I’d coax the songsters o’ the earth To carol thee upon thy ways, And fill ye up o’ love and love and love.

And a message of cheer and encouragement she gives to those who sorrow, in this: