deg.255
Was wrought by the mad people—­that’s their wont! 
On vain recourse, as I conjecture it. 
To his tried virtue, for miraculous help—­
How could he stop the earthquake?  That’s their way! 
The other imputations must be lies:  260
But take one, tho’ I loathe to give it thee,
In mere respect for any good man’s fame. 
(And after all, our patient Lazarus
Is stark mad; should we count on what he says? 
Perhaps not:  tho’ in writing to a leech
’Tis well to keep back nothing of a case.)
This man so cured regards the curer, then,
As—­God forgive me! who but God Himself,
Creator and sustainer of the world, deg. deg.269
That came and dwelt in flesh on it awhile. 270
—­’Sayeth that such an one was born, and lived,
Taught, healed the sick, broke bread at his own house,
Then died; with Lazarus by, for aught I know,
And yet was ... what I said nor choose repeat,
And must have so avouched himself, in fact,
In hearing of this very Lazarus
Who saith—­but why all this of what he saith? 
Why write of trivial matters, things of price
Calling at every moment for remark? 
I noticed on the margin of a pool 280
Blue-flowering borage, the Aleppo sort,
Aboundeth, very nitrous.  It is strange!

Thy pardon for this long and tedious case,
Which, now that I review it, needs must seem
Unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth! 
Nor I myself discern in what is writ
Good cause for the peculiar interest
And awe indeed this man has touched me with. 
Perhaps the journey’s end, the weariness
Had wrought upon me first.  I met him thus:  290
I crossed a ridge of short sharp broken hills
Like an old lion’s cheek teeth.  Out there came
A moon made like a face with certain spots
Multiform, manifold, and menacing: 
Then a wind rose behind me.  So we met
In this old sleepy town at unaware,
The man and I. I send thee what is writ. 
Regard it as a chance, a matter risked
To this ambiguous Syrian:  he may lose,
Or steal, or give it thee with equal good. 300
Jerusalem’s repose shall make amends
For time this letter wastes, thy time and mine;
Till when, once more thy pardon and farewell!

The very God! think, Abib; dost thou think? 
So, the All-Great, were the All-Loving too—­
So, through the thunder comes a human voice
Saying, “O heart I made, a heart beats here! 
Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself! 
Thou hast no power nor mayst conceive of mine,
But love I gave thee, with myself to love, 310
And thou must love me who have died for thee!”
The madman saith He said so; it is strange.