Act IV: Saint John

SAINT JOHN.The Ages come and go,The Centuries pass as Years;My hair is white as the snow,My feet are weary and slow,The earth is wet with my tearsThe kingdoms crumble, and fallApart, like a ruined wall,Or a bank that is underminedBy a river's ceaseless flow,And leave no trace behind!The world itself is old;The portals of Time unfoldOn hinges of iron, that grateAnd groan with the rust and the weight,Like the hinges of a gateThat hath fallen to decay;But the evil doth not cease;There is war instead of peace,Instead of Love there is hate;And still I must wander and wait,Still I must watch and pray,Not forgetting in whose sight,A thousand years in their flightAre as a single day.

The life of man is a gleamOf light, that comes and goesLike the course of the Holy Stream.The cityless river, that flowsFrom fountains no one knows,Through the Lake of Galilee,Through forests and level lands,Over rocks, and shallows, and sandsOf a wilderness wild and vast,Till it findeth its rest at lastIn the desolate Dead Sea!But alas! alas for meNot yet this rest shall be!

What, then! doth Charity fail?Is Faith of no avail?Is Hope blown out like a lightBy a gust of wind in the night?The clashing of creeds, and the strifeOf the many beliefs, that in vainPerplex man's heart and brain,Are naught but the rustle of leaves,When the breath of God upheavesThe boughs of the Tree of Life,And they subside again!And I remember stillThe words, and from whom they came,Not he that repeateth the name,But he that doeth the will!

And Him evermore I beholdWalking in Galilee,Through the cornfield's waving gold,In hamlet, in wood, and in wold,By the shores of the Beautiful Sea.He toucheth the sightless eyes;Before Him the demons flee;To the dead He sayeth: Arise!To the living: Follow me!And that voice still soundeth onFrom the centuries that are gone,To the centuries that shall be!From all vain pomps and shows,From the pride that overflows,And the false conceits of men;From all the narrow rulesAnd subtleties of Schools,And the craft of tongue and pen;Bewildered in its search,Bewildered with the cry,Lo, here! lo, there, the Church!Poor, sad HumanityThrough all the dust and heatTurns back with bleeding feet,By the weary road it came,Unto the simple thoughtBy the great Master taught,And that remaineth still:Not he that repeateth the name,But he that doeth the will!