Then suddenly beside him saw
A little Child all clad in white: 
He bowed his head in love and awe,
Then lifted high his burthen light.

High on his shoulders sat the Child,
While with strong limbs he fared among
The rushing waters black and wild
And where the fiercest currents swung.

The waters rose more high, more high,
Higher and higher every yard ... 
Nial stumbled on with sob and sigh,
Christ heard him panting sore and hard.

“O Child,” Nial cried, “forbear, forbear! 
Hark you not how these waters whirled! 
The weight of all the earth I bear,
The weary weight of all the world!”

“Christopher!” ... low above the noise,
The rush, the darkness, Nial heard
The far-off music of a Voice
That said all things in saying one word—­

“Christopher ... this thy name shall be! 
Christ-bearer is thy name, even so
Because of service done to me
Heavy with weight of the world’s woe.”

With breaking sobs, with panting breath
Christopher grasped a bent-held dune,
Then with flung staff and as in death
Forward he fell in a heavy swoon.

All night he lay in silence there,
But safe from reach of surging tide: 
White angels had him in their care,
Christ healed and watched him side by side.

When all the silver wings of dawn
Had waved above the rose-flusht east,
Christopher woke ... his dream was gone. 
The angelic songs had ceased.

Was it a dream in very deed,
He wondered, broken, trembling, dazed? 
His staff he lifted from the mead
And as an upright sapling raised.

Lo, it was as the monk had said—­
If he would prove the vision true,
His staff would blossom to its head
With flowers of every lovely hue.

Christopher bowed:  before his eyes
Christ’s love fulfilled the holy hour.... 
A south-wind blew, green leaves did rise
And the staff bloomed a myriad flower!

Christopher bowed in holy prayer,
While Christ’s love fell like healing dew: 
God’s father-hand was on him there: 
The peace of perfect peace he knew.

THE CROSS OF THE DUMB

A Christmas on Iona, Long, Long Ago

FIONA MACLEOD

One eve, when St. Columba strode
In solemn mood along the shore,
He met an angel on the road
Who but a poor man’s semblance bore.

He wondered much, the holy saint,
What stranger sought the lonely isle,
But seeing him weary and wan and faint
St. Colum hailed him with a smile.

“Remote our lone Iona lies
Here in the grey and windswept sea,
And few are they whom my old eyes
Behold as pilgrims bowing the knee....

“But welcome ... welcome ... stranger-guest,
And come with me and you shall find
A warm and deer-skinn’d cell for rest
And at our board a welcome kind....