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THE MAT

Is. l. 6.

               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 casement,
                    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 forgotten
                    Seized he on his way--
                                    Tore it, tossed it, dragged it wildly
                    Round the cloister gray.
                                    
               "Lo, the hound is like thy brethren,"
                    Spake the Voice he knew;
                                    "If thou are 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."
                                    
               "On the cold and footworn pavement
                    Lies it still and flat,
                                    Raves not if men trample on it,
                    For it is a mat."
                                    
               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."
                    

H. Suso.


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