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The Hand of Woman
I
Through the far-off cycles that lie behind, Through His mighty plan, unfolding slow - Is brought to our eyes, world-worn and old, The glimpse of a garden of long ago. Where the glad, new stream of Life flowed on, And the first fresh flowers bent down as it ran, His Voice was heard in the morning light, As He gave the woman to help the man. And down through the dusk of the ages gone, On the long, wild way that led to the light, The woman has gone by the side of the man, Sharing his sadness, and warfare, and might. When his voice rose high in a shriller note And the fields were stained with the battle-dye, She healed his wounds as the evening fell, And soothed his pain with her crooning cry. While the marching hosts went on to the West, While the nations fell with their standards furled, Her hands, each day, the ceaseless shuttle flung, And swiftly wove the garments of the world. When the builder raised the walls of home In the pride of his craft upon the earth, Her subtle mind and flying fingers filled The emptly wall with priceless things of worth. As the wonder-light of our Wisdom grew, And One came down from a throne on high, Man's hatred of man, and his lusts were stilled, By mystical things that flamed the sky. But the wonder of love, the tender smile That could soothe, the touch gentle and mild, The mother had learned, ere the world grew old, When she looked on the face of her child.
II
And, now, in the storm of the world's blind greed, With its tempest of wrong, burden of ill, The woman has heard through the cries and the lies, The Voice of the morn, that is small and still, Though the roar of the mart may fill the earth And the sky, with a mad and mighty sound She has seen, in pain, how the little hands Of children make the groaning wheels go round. And, thus, she would soothe the cry of the world, The sob of the child, the helpless, the lone; Her hand that is gentle would save and protect. And help man again to care for his own, Ere his power and greed shall still and oppress The wail, with the might of their golden tongue, And raise a great altar to Mammon, whereon Must perish the pooe, unprotected, and young. The Voice of the garden comes through the years, As the ages unfold His mighty plan; The hand that gently rocks the cradle must Now help to rule the anguished world of Man.
-Murray Ketcham Kirk (my great-grandma) Taken from: The Beacon Light and other poems; New York, Harold Vinal LTD; c1927 |
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