  Friar Hilary, of Barbizon, (Rest to his soul where his soul has gone!) Was a man whose life was long perplexed By pious juggles with the text. The logic of St. Thomas’ books Was fastened to his mind with hooks. He knew Tertullian’s work complete— That treatise on the Paraclete. He knew the words Chrysostom hurled In golden thunder on the world; And he could commentate and quote The thirteen books Saint Cyril wrote. The controversies of Jerome, He could recite them, tome by tome. The friar was tall and spare and spent, Like a cedar of Lebanon bare and bent. His eyes were sunken and burned too bright, Like restless stars in the pit of night. And dwelt far up in a cell alone; And from the turret, gray in air, He called to God with psalm and prayer, To come as he did to the wise of old— To come as the ancient voice foretold. All day the hawk swung overhead; All day the holy page was read. One bleak December he fasted sore, That Christ might knock at his low door— Lord Jesus shine across the floor. For he was hungry to be fed With the holy love, with the mystic bread. Yet Christ came not to sup with him, And Christmas Eve fell chilly and dim. “Where art Thou?” he would cry and hark, While echoes answered in the dark.... Where was the Lord—was he afar, Throned calmly on the central star? As of a mortal like to die. Up sprang the friar, the doors of oak He flung asunder at a stroke. Down stair by stair his quick feet flew, Startling the owls that the rafters knew, Breaking the webs that barred the way, Crushing the mosses that fear the day. Into the pitiless street he ran To find a stricken fellow-man, And carry him in upon his breast, With many a halt on the stairs for rest. He washed the feet and stroked the hair, And for the once forgot his prayer. He gave him wine that the Pope had sent For some great day of the Sacrament; And looking up, behold, at his side Was bending also the Crucified! He had come at last to the lonesome place, Threw sainted light on the friar’s face. And then the Master said: “My son, My children on my errands run; And when you flung the psalter by And hurried to a brother’s cry, You turned at last your rusty key, And left the door ajar for Me.”
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