And up here is the Buckingham village,
Which is built on these waters of strife,
It was here that the minister Babin,
Stood and preached of the Gospel of Life,
Of the message of love and of mercy,
The glad tidings of freedom and peace,
Of help for the hopeless and helpless,
For all weary ones rest and relief.
Was his message all noise like the rapids?
Was it empty and light as the foam?
Ah me! what thought the desolate inmate
Of the still upper room of his home?
One too many, one sad and unwelcome,
That reclined in his invalid's chair,
With her pale, busy fingers still knitting
Yarn mingled with sorrow and care.
And the brother stood up in the pulpit,
Stood up there in the neat village church,
And he preached of the pool of Bethesda,
Where the poor lame man lay in the porch
Waiting for the invisible mercy,
That shall healing and blessedness bring,
For those soft waters never were troubled,
Until swept by the life angel's wing.
But was that cottage home a Bethesda?
Was the porch up the dark narrow stair?
Were the thoughts of the lonely sister
Brighter made by a fond brother's care?
Ah who knows!--for the chair now is empty,
And the impotent girl is away,
While the night and the darkness covered
Such a deed from the light of the day.
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