“Unnamed Disciple,” Ensign, Apr. 1982, 15
I saw Him pass along the thoroughfare,
I could not hear his silent, sandalled feet;
The air was rich with scent of ripened ware
The market vendors offered in the street.
Yet as He passed, I felt a strange disquiet
With haggling tone and petty household cares;
I felt again the questing of the night,
The secret, searching burden of my prayers.
I left the throng and ran at anxious pace
To catch the tall, spare figure on the crest;
He heard my steps and turned—I saw His Face;
He had no need to speak—I knew the rest.
There in the dust, upon my knees I bent,
And wept for joy that I was blessed to see
The great Messiah by the Father sent.
How could I understand Gethsemane
Or see the shadow of the waiting cross?
How torn my heart, how terrible my pain,
Till Mary’s cries broke through the crushing loss—
Such joy, Dear Lord, that you should rise again!
How can I grieve though hard my lot may be,
Who knew such love as very few have known?
I walk by faith, I do not ask to see,
For I am called—my field is ploughed and sown.