His voice ceased and the men rose from their knees, looking expectantly for the heavenly sign, but ready, if need be, to meet with courage the threatened attack.

But stillness had again settled over the hill.  Only a few rods distant the Britons had stopped and grouped closely together were gazing in awestruck silence upon the dry and withered staff, which had so often aided Joseph in his wanderings from the Holy Land.  Following their gaze, Joseph and his companions turned toward it and even as they did so, behold!  A miracle!  The staff took root and grew and, as they watched, they saw it put forth branches and green leaves, fair buds and milk-white blossoms which filled the air with their sweet odor.

For a moment, awed and amazed, all stood silent.  Wondrously had Joseph’s prayer been answered!  This was indeed the heavenly token which had been foretold!  Then with tears of joy all cried out as with one voice, “Our God is with us!  Jesus is with us!”

Marvelling much at the strange things they had just seen and heard, the Britons dropped their weapons and fled in haste from the hill.

Then did Joseph and his disciples go down across the marsh into the valley and there they rested undisturbed.

Word of the miracle which had thus been wrought on Wearyall Hill was brought soon to Arviragus, the heathen king of the time, and he welcomed gladly the holy men and gave them the beautiful vale of Avalon whereon to live.  There they built “a little lonely church,” with roof of rushes and walls of woven twigs and “wattles from the marsh,” the first Christian church which had ever been built in Britain.

There they dwelt for many years, serving God, fasting and praying, and there Joseph taught the half-barbarous Britons, who gathered to listen to him, the faith of Christ.

* * * * *

Time passed and the little, low, wattled church became a great and beautiful abbey.  Many pilgrims there were who came to worship at the shrine of St. Joseph; to drink from the holy well which sprang from the foot of Chalice Hill where the Holy Cup lay buried; and to watch the budding of the mystic thorn, which, year after year, when the snows of Christmas covered the hills, put forth its holy blossoms, “a symbol of God’s promise, care and love.”

Now long, long afterward there came a time when there was war in the land and one day a rough soldier who recked not of its heavenly origin cut down the sacred tree.  Only a flat stone now marks the place where it once stood and where Joseph’s staff burst into bloom.  But there were other trees which had been grown from slips of the miraculous thorn and these, “mindful of our Lord” still keep the sacred birthday and blossom each year on Christmas Day.

THE BLOOMING OF THE WHITE THORN

EDITH MATILDA THOMAS

God shield ye, comrades of the road! 
  And while our way we hold,
List while I tell how it first befell
  In the wondrous days of old.