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It was the Road to Jericho

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It was the Road to Jericho

By Annie Fellows Johnston

    Author of The
    Little Colonel·
    The Desert of
    Waiting·
    Etc.

    ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN R NEILL

    NEW YORK
    BRITTON PUBLISHING COMPANY


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    Copyright
    1919
    by
    Annie
    Fellows
    Johnston

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It Was the Road to Jericho


    It was the road to Jericho,
      And brave indeed the man
    Who went alone and waited not
      To join the caravan.

    For robber hoards swooped down the cliffs
        Like eagles on their prey,
    And mercy was not known to them,
      Theirs but to kill and slay.

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    Along the road to Jericho
        A man went riding by,
    He heard a groan of mortal pain,
        He heard a piercing cry.

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    He got him down from off his beast,
        He found the one who bled,
    The thieves had bruised and beaten him
    And left him well nigh dead.

    (The Levite and the priest had passed,
      The calls to them were vain).
    He bound his wounds. With oil and wine
      He eased the grevious pain.

    Then to the inn he carried him
      And paid the keeper's price,
    As one who does a deed for love,
      Nor counts it sacrifice.

    Lo, as he passed upon his way,
      His robe it showed a stain--
    Two red marks on his white sleeve, where
      The bleeding head had lain.

    One, made in pity when he stooped
        To lift the wounded up,
    The other, when in love he bent
        To offer him the cup.

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    Two red, red lines which made a cross,
        And marked him as the man
    Whose name is, till the end of time
        "The good Samaritan."




Part II

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    The World pressed toward its Jericho,
      The goal of its desire--
    Its marts, its pleasures and its shrines
      Its dreams of great empire.

    A hoard of gold it bore along
          To barter and to buy.
    But on the road, by thieves beset,
          It, too, was left to die.

    The Son of God came down that way
      To succour and to save,
    To bind its wounds, to heal its sin
      To lift it from the grave.

    Lo! He too, went upon His way
      When He had paid the price.
    Marked by the red red lines that make
      The Cross of Sacrifice.

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    Where all the woe of all the world
      Upon His heart had lain
    And all the sin of earth pressed sore
      There gleamed that double stain.

    And now we cannot name His name
      Who is the Lord of Heaven,
    Without a thought of that symbol
      By love and pity given.

    Now onward to our Jericho
        We press with bated breath.
    For evil grows the way, and dark.
        On every hand stalks death.




Part III

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    The robber hoards that strip and slay
      Take more than gold, forsooth,
    They kill our holiest of Hopes--
      They take all Love--all Youth!

    They smite the mother and the maid--
      The babe that cries unfed,
    And little children, sore afraid
      Sob in the night for bread.

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    Oh, who shall staunch such world-wide woe--
      Such universe of pain?
    And who has oil and wine enough?
      And must they cry in vain?

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    Nay! On the road to Jericho
      There be a million now,
    Who bear Christ's pity in their hearts,
      His sign upon their brow.

    And millions more shall follow them
      To bind and to restore.
    Till all the highway is made safe
      And war shall be no more.

    Now God give grace to all who hear
      And may His love suffice
    To blaze upon each heart each day
      The Cross of Sacrifice.

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Transcriber's Note:

Obvious punctuation repaired.

The original text spelled "grievous" as "grevious." This was retained so
as to not change the poem's meter.

The original text had the contraction for "it is" (it's) in place of
every possessive "its." This was corrected.