'The Bag of Sand' was written by St. Heradius, who visited, sometime in the fifth century, the hermit fathers of the desert and mountains, and collected many interesting stories about them. (Francesca Alexander (1837-1917))
The Bag of Sand
In that land of
desolation
Where, mid dangers manifold,
Lost in heavenly
contemplation,
Desert fathers dwelt of
old,
Lay a field where grass
was growing
Green
beneath the palm-trees’ shade;
And a spring, forever flowing,
Life amid the stillness made.
There a brotherhood, incited
By one hope and purpose high,
Came to dwell in faith united,
Pray and labour, live and die.
Mighty was the love that bound them,
Each to each, in that
wild land,
Where the desert closed
around them,
One dead waste of rocks
and sand,
Saving where, to rest
their eyes on,
While they dreamed of
hills divine,
Blue, above the low
horizon,
Stretched the
mountains’ wavy line.
There could nought of
earth remind them,
Nor disturb their
dreams and prayers;
They had left the world
behind them,
Felt no more its joys
and cares.
Far from all its weary bustle,
Will subdued, and mind
at ease,
They could hear the
palm-trees rustle
In the early morning
breeze.
When the bell, to
prayer inviting,
From the low-built
belfry rang,
They could hear the
birds uniting
With them while the
psalms they sang.
From the earth their
labour brought them
All they needed –
scanty fare.
Life of toil and
hardship taught them,
Though at peace, the
cross to bear.
This is all their
record: never
Can we hope the rest to
know!
Names and deeds are
lost forever,
In the mist of long
ago;
And of all that life
angelic
Neither shadow left,
nor trace,
Save this tale – a
precious relic,
In its wise and saintly
grace!
This, above the
darkness lifted
By the truth that in it
lay,
On the sea of time has
drifted,
And is still our own today.
Listen to it, it may
teach us
Wisdom, with its words
of gold!
Let this far-off
blessing reach us
From the desert saints of old.
***********
Underneath the vines they
tended,
Where the garden air was sweet,
Where the shadows, softly
blended,
Made an ever-cool retreat,
--
These good brethren had
assembled,
On their abbot to attend;
All were sad, and many
trembled,
Thinking how the day would
end.
Of their little
congregation
One who long had faithful
been,
Had, beneath a sore
temptation,
Fallen into grievous sin.
What it was they have not
told us,
But we know, whate’er the
blame,
If God’s hand should cease
to hold us,
You or I might do the
same.
And for judgement’s wise
completing
(Now the crime was certified),
All were called in solemn
meeting
On the sentence to decide.
Much in doubt, they craved
assistance,
Sent to convents far away,
Even to that fair blue
distance
Where their eyes had loved
to stray.
Fathers learned, fathers
saintly,
Abbots used to think and
rule,
Gathered where the brook
sang faintly
In the shadow green and
cool.
Oh, the beauty that was
wasted
On that day, remembered
oft!
Oh, the sweetness, all
untasted,
Of the morning, still and
soft!
At their feet the water
glistened,
Birds were nesting
overhead;
No one saw, and no one
listened
Save to what the speakers
said.
Long and sad was their
debating,
Voices low and faces
grave,
While, the gloomy tale
relating,
Each in turn his judgment
gave.
“Send him from you!” one
was saying
Calmly, as of reason sure;
“All are tainted by his
staying,
Let men know your hands
are pure!
“For the shame and sorrow
brought you,
Let him be to all as dead!
Harm sufficient has he
wrought you!”
But the abbot shook his
head.
For the sin which had
undone him,
For much evil brought
about,
He would lay a burden on
him,
But he could not cast him
out!
All night long the distant
howling,
While he waked, of beasts
of prey,
Made him think of demons
prowling,
Come to snatch that soul
away.
Said another: “I would
rather
That his shame by all were
seen.
Do not spare him, O my
Father;
Let the blow be swift and
keen!
“Let not justice be
evaded!
Keep him, bound to labour
hard,
With you, but apart
degraded,
And from speech with all
debarred!”
This the abbot not refusing,
Only wondered, while he
thought,
Was there no one feared
the losing
Of a soul the Lord had
bought?
One, more thoughtless, recommended
That in prison closely
pent
He should stay till life
was ended!
But to this would none
consent.
In the cell where first
they closed him,
Shrinking back, as best he
might,
From a window that exposed
him
Sometimes to a passer’s
sight,
He, the black offender,
waited,
From them parted since his
fall:
Once beloved, now scorned
and hated
By himself, he thought by
all!
Nothing asking, nothing
pleading,
Speechless, tearless, in
despair;
But, like one in pain
exceeding,
Moving ever here and there.
Little did his fate alarm
him:
What had he to fear or
shun?
What could others do to
harm him
More than he himself had done?
But without were minds
divided,
And the morning wore away;
Noon had come, and
undecided
Still the heavy question
lay.
Though they looked so
stern and fearless,
Some with sinking hearts
had come, --
Hearts that wept when eyes
were tearless,
Pleaded when the lips were
dumb.
One who had that morning
seen him,
Seeking from their gaze to
hide,
Tried from heavy doom to
screen him;
But his reasons were
denied.
He of other days was
thinking, --
Happy days, and still so
near! –
When that brother, shamed
and shrinking,
Had to all their souls
been dear.
Others tried their hearts
to harden,
Felt their pity to be sin;
Silent, prayed the Lord to
pardon
Kinder thoughts that rose
within.
Some proposed and some
objected,
While, the long debate to
end,
One old Father they
expected,
And on him would all
depend.
He – their honoured, best
adviser—
Dwelt in desert cave
retired;
Older than the rest, and
wiser:
Many thought his words
inspired;
Said he knew what passed
within them
When by sin or doubt
assailed;
True it is, his words
could win them,
Often, when all else had
failed.
He would find what all
were seeking,
Justice pure, and judgment
right!
Still the abbot, seldom
speaking,
Pale and sober, prayed for
light.
Light was sent! For,
toiling slowly
O’er the sun-baked desert
road,
Came that Father, wise and
holy,
Bent beneath a weary load!
Scarce his failing limbs
sustained him,
For the burden sorely
pressed:
Many times, as though it
pained him,
Would he stand to breathe
and rest.
One who watched for his
arriving,
Went and told them he was
near.
Up they rose, and ceased
their striving,
In their joy such news to
hear!
Then they all went forth
and met him,
By their reverent love
compelled:
Nevermore could one forget
him,
Who that day his face
beheld!
Wasted, worn, yet strong
to aid them;
Peaceful, though by
conflict tried;
Shining with a light that
made them
Feel the Lord was by his side!
But it grieved their souls
to see him
By that burden bowed and
strained!
Many stretched their hands
to free him,
Wondering what the sack
contained.
“Why this burden?” one
addressed him;
“All unfit for arms like
thine!”
He, while yet the weight
oppressed him,
Answered: “These are sins
of mine.
“I must bear them all, my
brother,
Ever with me while I go
On my way to judge
another!
These have made my journey
slow.”
Then the abbot, growing
bolder,
Raised the load with trembling
hand
From the Father’s bended
shoulder;
Looked – and found it
filled with sand.
Of them all, there was not
any
But was silent for a
while;
For the best had sins as
many
As the sand-grains in that
pile!
Then they heard the abbot
saying,
“God alone must judge us
all!”
And a burden, heavy
weighing,
Seemed from every heart to
fall.
Awed and hushed, but no
more keeping
Pity crushed, or love
restrained,
Some were smiling, some
were weeping;
Of their striving what
remained?
Many bowed in veneration;
Others all in haste to go
With a word of consolation
To their brother fallen
low.
Hope they brought, and
gentler feeling,
To his torn, despairing
breast,
And that evening found him
kneeling
In the chapel with the
rest.
None arose to judge or
sentence:
He whose sin they most
deplored,
In his long and sad
repentance,
Was with charity restored.
Taken from ‘The Hidden Servants, and
other very old stories.’ Told over again
by Francesca Alexander. Published by
David Nutt, at the Sign of the Phoenix, Long Acre, London. 1911.
