  Very early in the morning, Rachel, charged with this office by Stephen, breaks to Ruth the news of her husband's death. The two then go together to the place where the body of Stephen is laid. There, Ruth, kneeling in prayer beside her martyred husband, repentantly accepts his Lord for hers, becoming a Christian. Rachel, having hastily visited her home, to find Saul gone thence with purpose not to return, leaves the house in her maid's care and goes back to Ruth, to whom, being requested to do so, she tells the story of Stephen's stoning. Then the funeral of Stephen takes place, with a memorial discourse pronounced, and an elegy recited, at the tomb. RUTH AND RACHEL.The morrow morn broke fair in Bethany, And Ruth rose early from unquiet sleep; Rachel likewise, who slept in Mary's house. The sun had not yet risen, but in the west The moon hung whitening opposite the dawn, When Ruth, her children left asleep, went forth To feel the freshness of the morning air Without, and water from the village well To draw, both for the slaking of her thirst And for the cooling of her brow that burned And of her throbbing temples. At the well Rachel she met who earlier still was forth On the like errand. The two women hailed And kissed each other. Ruth to Rachel then Said: "Thou art not, I trow, this morning come Hither the long way from Jerusalem?" "Nay, Ruth," said Rachel, "here the yesternight With Mary and Martha I abode a guest." The crest of Olivet, it lights upon Descending, broken, like a breath from heaven. What a delicious balm!" "About my brow," Said Rachel, "gratefully I feel the air, Attempered so, soft flowing, as if one That loved me like a mother gently stroked My temples to undo a band of pain Bound round them." "And, in sooth," the other said, Now looking narrowly at Rachel's face, "Thou seemest sad of favor, Rachel. Thou, Thou too, so young, hast then thy cause to grieve! It is a sad world and a weary. But— Forgive me if such quick instinctive fears Be selfish, I am wife and mother—aught Of evil tidings bringest thou me? Spare not To speak. Thou wilt but answer to the dreams I had this night, portending nameless ill. Stephen—I fear for him. He yesterday Left me beyond his wont oppressed in spirit, And has not since returned. Strange—yet not strange; Alone upon the top of Olivet Or in the shadows of Gethsemane." "Ruth," Rachel said, "the Angel of the Lord Round His belovÉd, like the mountains round Jerusalem, encampeth ever; he Of God's belovÉd is, and guarded well!" But Ruth scarce listened; she insisting said: "Perhaps of Stephen some report thou bringest, Hint doubtless of new danger threatening him!" "Nay, Ruth, no longer danger threatens now Thy husband; that is past, and he is safe." "Thank God," said Ruth; "but stay, I dare not yet Thank God. Tell me, have then our rulers ceased To frown on Stephen preaching Jesus Christ? Or Stephen, will he cease and preach no more? This cannot be, for Stephen is such stuff As never yet did bend to mortal beck; And that—our rulers surely have not changed Thus suddenly their mind. Thou art deceived, They have deceived thee—Stephen is not safe; It is their guile to make us think him safe, Into their hands. Rachel, it was not kind, Not faithful in thee so to be deceived. More love had made thee more suspicious. I Suspect forever everybody; thee Now I suspect. Thou keepest something back, Or haply palterest with a double sense. Rachel, I charge thee, I adjure thee, speak And tell me all. Stephen is dead! Say that— Is dead! Thou meantest that by, 'He is safe.' They have stoned him, stoned my husband, stoned the man That was the truest Hebrew of them all!" Though by her words Ruth challenged frank reply, Yet by her tones and by her eager looks She deprecated more what she invoked. This Rachel saw, and answered not a word. Then Ruth gainsaid what Rachel would not say: "They have not done it, could not do it, he— Rachel, it is not true, unsay it, quick, It was a cruel jest to tease me so, Thou art not a wife, thou art not a mother, else Thou never hadst conceived so ill a jest!" Went on invoking what she would not hear: "Why art thou silent? Speak, and keep not back The truth, whatever it may be; there's naught So soothing and so healing as the truth. But I will not believe that he is dead. Thou didst not know my husband. Dead! dead! dead! I tell thee, Rachel, that is something past Imagining dreadful, hopeless. To be dead Is—not to love, and not to speak to those Who loved and love thee, not to hear them speak, Saying they loved and love thee and lament They ever gave thee cause of grief and now Are different and would die a thousand deaths To have been different then when thou couldst know— Death, Rachel,—but of death what canst thou learn, For thou art but a child and never wast, Never, to such a husband such a wife— To vex the noblest heart that ever broke!" Rachel at first had listened with dismay, And nothing found to answer to Ruth's words, For answer, as if she in truest truth Sought not the answer that she seemed to seek, Would fain postpone it rather, or avert. But when at length the utterance of Ruth's thought From converse passed into soliloquy And the deep secret of her soul revealed, Then Rachel caught a welcome gleam of hope. A sign of grace she saw or seemed to see At work for Ruth within her heart of grief, Transmuting human sorrow to divine Repentance, and for pain preparing peace. "Let us go in together," Rachel said, For they by this were nigh to Ruth's abode, "Let us go in where we may be withdrawn From note of such as here might mark our speech Or action; I have word from him to thee." Then they went in, and Ruth bestirred herself To make a cheer of welcome for her guest. That momentary truce to troubled thought For Ruth, and interspace of quietness From her own words which could not choose but flow With helpless importunity till then, "O Ruth, thy husband fell asleep last night, And slept a sweeter sleep than thine or mine, A deep sweet sleep, a happy sleep, a blest. Thou wouldst not wake him thence for worlds on worlds. He felt before he slept that he should sleep, And me, whom God our Father let be nigh, Stephen bade bear a last good-night to thee. He did not think the night was very long Before him for his sleeping, and his wish Was thou shouldst meet him presently to say Good-morning. This was his true message, Ruth." The ineffably serene steadfast regard Of Rachel's eyes, that, out of liquid depths Unsounded, looked angelic love and truth, With pity mingled, equal measure—tears Orbing them large, shot through and through with light Of heavenly hope for Ruth—but, more than all A subtly sweet insinuating tone, Most musical, of softness in the voice, That gently wound into the listener's heart— Wrought a bright miracle of change in Ruth. She had been hard and dry, a desert rock; The rock was smitten now with Moses' rod. Ruth gushed in gracious tears, she veiled herself With weeping, as sometimes a precipice Veils itself dim with mist of cataract. And Rachel wept with Ruth, until Ruth said: "But where is Stephen, Rachel? It might be They, meaning death, yet did not compass death. Such things have been; haste, let us go and see. Monstrous it were, if he should need me—I The while here sitting weeping idle tears!" "Come," Rachel said, and took her by the hand. So hand in hand they went to Mary's house, The elder guided as the younger led, And neither speaking, stilled with solemn thought. Mary and Martha met the twain, with mute, Subdued, affectionate greeting, at the door, And, understanding without word their wish, Straight led them inward, with a quietude Of gesture that spoke peace and peace infused, That slumberer late so violently lulled To this so placid sleep. The room was flushed With hue of gold in hangings round the walls And rugs of russet muffling deep the floor, That made a kind of inner light diffused, Like sunshine without sun and shadowless. A golden-curtained window opened east, And east the upturned face of Stephen looked, Lying there motionless in that fast sleep— So lying that, had he his eyelids raised, He without moving might have seen the morn. The rest, with one accord not entering, stood About the door without, silent, and saw While the wife sole went to the husband's side. That instant, lo, from out the breaking dawn A level sunbeam through the curtain slipped And touched the fair translucent face with light. Ruth marked it and she testified and said, Falling upon her knees beside the couch: "I take it as a token, Lord, from Thee; Even so send Thou Thy light into my heart! Lo, by the side of him made beautiful In death, of whom I was unworthy, here Too late for him to have known it!—to his Lord. I trust to be forgiven for my sin! I thank Thee that I was not weight enough Upon him to prevail against Thy might Within him and prevent this sacrifice— Accomplished all without my help, nay, all In spite of my resistance! O my God, How hast Thou humbled me! To have had no part, Wife with her husband to have borne no part— Save hindering what she could!—when such a deed Of martyrdom for Christ was possible! Behold, O Lord, thus late I take my part! This now is also mine, as well as his, This sacrifice. I have offered him to Thee! And if my share be heavier even than his— To live bereaved more grievous martyrdom Than to have died—this too is my desert, Accept the witness of my widowhood!" Ruth ceased, but rose not from her knees, still fixed In posture as if grown a pillar of prayer. Then those three women came and knelt with her Beside her dead, a silent fellowship Rachel and Mary, one on either side Of Ruth, borne by the self-same impulse each, Each at the self-same instant borne, unto The self-same beautiful appeal, pure love's Pure touch, stole softly each a hand in hers. Each plighting hand so proffered Ruth upraised Slowly and solemnly as with a kind Of consecrating gesture to her lips, And kissing seemed to seal a sacrament. Then she arose, and all arose with her, When Martha, not forgotten, likewise shared, She too, with Ruth the kiss of sisterhood. So, never a word between them spoken, all Went backward and withdrew, Ruth last, who saw That sunshine glorifying Stephen's brow, And bore it thence, Shekinah in her heart. Her countenance thus illumined from within, The mother to her orphan children went, And moved, a light, about her household ways. She knew that others would with holy heed Prepare that holy dust for burial. But Rachel was more comfortless than Ruth. First having broken fast, but sparingly, She hastened with winged footsteps to her home. There her maid told her Saul went early forth Leaving this message for his sister: "Here Bide, if thou wilt; this house be still thy home. But I go hence, whither I cannot tell, Nor yet for how long absence; to what end— Thou knowest. Cheer thee well!" The little maid Looked rueful and perplexed, but nothing asked, As nothing Rachel told her, save to say: "Quick, bring thine elder sister, thou and she Shall keep the house together for a time. I also go, my little maid"—wherewith Her little maid, now weeping, Rachel kissed— "I also go, but weep not, I shall come Again, I trust, in happier times. Farewell!" Then Rachel straight to Ruth's abode returned. "Glad am I thou hast come once more," said Ruth, "For I have wished to ask thee many things. How came his dreadful chance of martyrdom On Stephen? I can bear to hear it all, Since all is done and past and—'He is safe,' Tenderly Ruth smiled, With tears behind her smiles that did not fall. Then Rachel said: "I cannot tell thee all As having all beheld, but this I heard, That Stephen gave a noble testimony Before the council who had cited him; That there his face shone like an angel's, God Himself so swearing for His servant, while Against him swore false witnesses suborned By Shimei; that his enemies could not bear The fierceness of the love with which in wrath He burned for God against their wickedness, And so they rushed upon him violently And thrust him forth without the city walls. But God beheld their threatening, and He sent His Romans to withstand them for a while. Then we that loved and honored him drew nigh, And would have spoken words of cheer to him, But he—O Ruth, thou shouldst have seen him then! I never can describe to thee how fair Thy husband was to look upon, while he, As steadfast as a star and as serene, Stood there amid the angry Sanhedrim And to us spake such heavenly words of cheer! He spake of thee, Ruth, and I think God gave His spirit comfort in good hope for thee. For, 'God will give all to our prayers,' said he, And added, 'Husband He will be to her, And Father to the fatherless.'" Thereat Ruth's tears as from a fresh-oped fountain flowed, And eased her aching heart, too full before Of love, remorseful love, for perfect peace. Rachel with Ruth wept tears of sympathy; But with the sweet and wholesome in her tears Mixed salt and bitter, for she thought of Saul. Ruth at length ceased to weep and yearning said: "And then those Romans let them work their will!" "On Stephen's body, yea, Ruth," Rachel said, "But on his spirit they could have no power." "The stones," said Ruth— "The stones, Ruth," Rachel said, "God gave His angels charge concerning them— So verily I believe—and strictly bade, No harm unto My prophet.' So the stones, They slew, but hurt not. God translated him; He rose triumphant in meek majesty. I should have told thee, Ruth, that while he stood Before the council, he looked up and saw Jesus in heaven on the right hand of God— There standing; this he testified to all. It was as if his faithful Lord had risen To side with Stephen in his agony. So, when they stoned him, Stephen upward spoke, 'Lord Jesus, take my spirit'; then once more, 'Lord, lay not Thou this sin unto their charge.' This he said kneeling and so fell asleep." The two some space sat musing silently; Then Ruth: "I feel that thou hast told me all Most truly, Rachel, as most tenderly. Thus, then, God giveth His belovÉd sleep, Thus also! And He doeth all things well! Amen!" Silence once more, that seemed surcharged With deepening inarticulate amen "Even so! But, Rachel, us not yet doth God Will thus to sleep. Still, otherwise to sleep— For His belovÉd are not also we?— May be God's gift to us. Thou surely needest, Body and spirit, rest." And Rachel said: "The words of Stephen leap unto my lips For answering thee; and these were Stephen's words: 'God bless thee, Martha, for thy loving thought!' And this makes me remember that one thing Done yesterday I missed to tell thee of. For Martha, faithful heart, forecasting well, Brought food for Stephen that might hearten him To bear whatever he had need to bear, A cake of barley and a honeycomb. 'God bless thee, Martha, for thy loving thought!' Said Stephen, and so took the food from her, And ate it giving thanks before us all. He ate it with such look of appetite, It cheered us with a sense of freedom his From any discomposure of the mind. O Ruth, in His pavilion God did hide Thy husband, and his soul had perfect peace!" Bloomed like a flower to grace his daily life. I used to wonder at it—and I now Wonder I did not see where such a flower, Where, and where only, such a flower could find Rooting to flourish in a world like this! He always told me that the heart of Christ Nourished what good in him, or beautiful, I found—or fancied, as he smiled and said. But I—Oh, holden heart!—I did not see. And now it is too late, too late, for him To have known! It may be that he knows it, yea, But now to know it is not wholly such As to have known it then, to have known it then! Alas, there is not any chance of hope Behind us, Rachel; hope is all before. Let us look onward; we in hope were saved, So Stephen used to say, and, 'I go hence In comfort of some hope,' were his last words, Or of his last, to me—concerning me, Spoken with a sad cheerfulness that now Breaks me with such a surge of memory! But this is endless, let it here have end. And I will bring thee to a quiet room, Safe from the sun, where thou shalt rest a while." So Rachel followed Ruth, not ill content To be alone for thought if not for sleep. Her will was not to sleep; but weariness, With youth and health, was stronger, and she slept. Already, when she woke, the sun halfway From his high noon had down the western slope Of sky descended, and she hearkening heard A rumorous noise without upon the ways, The stir of movement, steps of many feet, With sound, muffled, of many voices nigh, That startled her from sweet forgetfulness To sudden sad remembrance of the things That had been, and that were, and were to be. Instinctive up she sprang, for, "Lo," she said, "They gather unto Stephen's funeral; Behooves that I be ready with all speed." Therewith upon her knees she sank and prayed A prayer for Ruth and for Ruth's little ones, Widowed and orphaned by so dear a death, And for herself—and for her brother Saul! And, anguished in one swift vicarious throe Of great desire for help and grace divine, She embraced the total church of Jesus Christ— Of such a guide, of such a stay, bereaved! Then Rachel, with the Everlasting Arms Invisibly, nigh visibly, around Her to sustain her steps, came forth, as one That meekly walks leaning on her beloved, And begged of Ruth that she might sister be To her, that day, and thenceforth ever, mourn As sister with her in the eyes of all. "For I am lonely," Rachel said, "O Ruth, As thou art; lonely let us be, we twain, Together, widows both, and mix our tears. For also I am widow, as thou art, Yet not as thou—since me a heavier stroke Makes widow, who have never been a wife!" Ruth answered, though she did not understand, And kissed her friend in plight of sisterhood. So they two, clad alike from out Ruth's store Of raiment, clad in sad attire alike, As sisters walked together side by side— To where, from Mary's house and Martha's borne, With grievous lamentation, by good men Devout, the flower and choice of Israel, Was laid the sacred dust of Stephen down And sealed within a rock-hewn sepulchre. Joseph of ArimathÆa, he who sought And gained from Pilate leave to take away The body of Jesus crucified, had sent To Bethany, betimes, before the hour Of burial, rich spices, a great weight, Aloes and myrrh, with linen pure and fine, To wrap the body of Stephen for his tomb. Mary, the mother of the Lord, with John Beloved of Jesus, loving her as son, Came to that feast of sorrow bringing tears, To Ruth medicinal more than any, wept By one who had so learned to weep. So there With sackcloth worn and ashes on the head, They wailed aloud, that Hebrew company, Women and men, they beat the breast, they rent Their raiment, until one stood forth who said: Us it befits not here, for Stephen dead, To mourn as mourn others who have no hope. He was a burning and a shining light, And we a season in his beams were glad. Glory to God who kindled him for us! Glory to God who hath from us withdrawn His shining, and now hides him in Himself! We thought we could not spare him, but God knew. Let all be as God wills Who knows. Amen!" "Amen!" they solemnly responded all, And he who spake these things went on and said: "The Lord anointed Stephen with the oil Of gladness in the gift of speech above His fellows. How he flamed insufferably, In words that leapt out of his mouth, like swords Out of their sheaths, enkindled to devour The wicked! When he spoke, flew seraphim And bore from off the altar living coals Of God which, laid upon his lips, purged them To utter those pure words that purified. What zeal, what wisdom, what fixed faith, what power! He stood our bulwark, he advanced our sword, Yet this puissant soldier of the truth, To disobedience so implacable, How gentle and how placable he was To all obedience! He was like his Lord, That Lion of the tribe of Judah, named Also the Lamb of God. No words had he Save words of vivid flame, sudden and swift And deadly like the lightning, for God's foes; But for the little flock of Jesus, balm His speech—into those lips such grace was poured! "Nor less in him for mighty work than word The Holy Ghost a fountain was of power. From him or through him what a plenteous stream Flowed like the river of God in miracle! Signs, wonders, gifts of healing, heavenly powers, Innumerable flocked about his hand, Like doves unto their windows flying home, Waiting there eager to perform his will. "A prophet of the elder time, reborn Into the spirit of this latter age, Was Stephen. Thanking God for him, let us Together and steadfastly pray that He In John the Baptist, give us Stephen back In resurrection from his tomb with power. Thus shall we pray as himself prophesied— For Stephen, you remember, glanced at this In prophecy; unless not prophecy It were, but only generous hope, with wish To comfort Rachel, when he spake to her Of grace to come upon her brother yet— We shall so seek what seems it he foresaw, If we ask Jesus to make captive Saul!" That speaker ceased, and then a prophetess Among the women there took up a wail, Which triumphed into gladness as it grew: "Is fallen, is fallen, a prince in Israel! Woe, while it yet was day, his sun went down! Daughters of Judah, mourn for Stephen slain! "Mourn for a candle of the Lord put out, A torch of noble witness quenched in blood; Wear sackcloth of thick darkness and bewail! "Repent, O daughters of Jerusalem, Repent, forsake your wickedness of woe; "Is risen, is risen; behold, at the right hand On high sits he of his ascended Lord; Rejoice, rejoice, for Stephen could not die! "Comfort ye Ruth; thrice among women she Lives blessÉd, who, from wife to him, became, Widowed, partaker of his martyrdom! "Hosanna to the Son of David, Who, Beheld of Stephen standing in the heavens, Received His servant's spirit to Himself! "The Resurrection and the Life is He; He will not leave this body in its tomb; Stephen and we shall meet Him in the air. "Descending with the sound that wakes the dead, Ten thousand of His saints attending Him, He comes! He comes! Even so, Lord Jesus, come! "Salvation, worship, blessing, glory, power, Forever and forever unto God, Our God; He never will forsake His own." Uplifted high in heart, they went away. |
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