  For many a year Saint Christopher Served God in many a land; And master painters drew his face, With loving heart and hand, On altar fronts and churches' walls; And peasants used to say,— To look on good Saint Christopher Brought luck for all the day. For many a year, in lowly hut, The giant dwelt content Upon the bank, and back and forth Across the stream he went; And on his giant shoulders bore All travellers who came, By night, by day, or rich or poor, All in King Jesus' name. But much he doubted if the King His work would note or know, And often with a weary heart He waded to and fro. One night, as wrapped in sleep he lay, He sudden heard a call,— "O Christopher, come, carry me!" He sprang, looked out, but all Was dark and silent on the shore, "It must be that I dreamed," He said, and laid him down again; But instantly there seemed Again the feeble, distant cry,— "Oh, come and carry me!" Again he sprang and looked: again No living thing could see. The third time came the plaintive voice, Like infant's, soft and weak; With lantern strode the giant forth, More carefully to seek. Down on the bank a little child He found,—a piteous sight,— Who weeping, earnestly implored To cross that very night. With gruff good will he picked him up, And on his neck to ride He tossed him, as men play with babes, And plunged into the tide. But as the water closed around His knees, the infant's weight Grew heavier, and heavier, Until it was so great The giant scarce could stand upright, His staff shook in his hand, His mighty knees bent under him, He barely reached the land. And, staggering, set the infant down, And turned to scan his face; When, lo! he saw a halo bright Which lit up all the place. Then Christopher fell down, afraid At marvel of the thing, And dreamed not that it was the face Of Jesus Christ, his King. Until the infant spoke, and said: "O Christopher, behold! I am the Lord whom thou hast served, Rise up, be glad and bold! "For I have seen and noted well, Thy works of charity; And that thou art my servant good A token thou shalt see. Plant firmly here upon this bank Thy stalwart staff of pine, And it shall blossom and bear fruit, This very hour, in sign." Then, vanishing, the infant smiled. The giant, left alone, Saw on the bank, with luscious dates, His stout pine staff bent down. I think the lesson is as good To-day as it was then— As good to us called Christians As to the heathen men— The lesson of Saint Christopher, Who spent his strength for others, And saved his soul by working hard To help and save his brothers! Helen Hunt Jackson |
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