Johannes Ronge

Johannes Ronge
Silesian shepherd, blesed beThe sequel of that historyThat I have read with heart elate,Entwining it with my own fate;So dear to me the visions seemThat thou, oh child unknown, didst dream—In earliest days on mountain wild:—How dreadful spirits sternly smiled,And prophecied thy future days,And pointed out untrodden ways,And gave thee weapons strong & good,As the wierd lady of the WoodTo young St. George. Must I compareWith those dove winged guardians fairWho to the little English maidIn crowded streets brief visits paid;For in the year that gave me birthDidst thou appear upon this earth:And we have wandered far & wideSeeking for truth on every side.Sweet dreadful spirits strengthed theeInto a noble destinySweet smiling angels sang to meStrains full of love and mystery.Yet know I not what I should doIn worship of the good & true.Oh! gentle shepherd, dost thou wearMeek flowers on thy waving hair,And dost thou pipe a simple song,And love thy flock the whole day long?Or, stately shepherd, comest thouWith flaming signs around thy browAnd God's commandment in thy hand?And dost thou read & understand?Deliverer—for the good & trueWithin one day what shall we do?How shall we build the mystic shrine?What symbols shall be thine & mine?Tell, modern priest, what robes should beEmblems of richest charty?What consecrations may there be,What hope, what faith, what mystery?And wilt thou walk thy people thro',And sprinkle us with heavenly dew?And shall we from the sacred doorGo forth & search the parish o'er,And mark what evil there is done,And give some remedy, each one?A cup of water, if no more.As thou hast purified before,With graceful step & action bland,Shall we, with schemes of duty plannedBy wisest hearts, walk daily thro'With serious step devout & true.Our spirits may in deepest restSleep softly on the Savior's breast.Permit it not, dear Lord, that weShould ever fall from loving thee.Countless I trust the spirits beWho rest upon thee lovingly.The holy Mary, beauteous light,Who gazes on her face aright?I think the world has yet to turnTheir looks toward her eyes, & learn.There may they read of things unknown,And make rare wonders all their own.Canst thou within that house of gold,Oh! shepherd, thy poor lambkins fold?
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