Sthephan G. Stephansson Poetry
THE PROPHET'S SON
Our scriptures say the fathers fell upon
And foully beat and killed the prophet's son.
But long before the grass had greened the clay
They gathered at his little knoll to pray.
A lettered stone construed it holy ground
And strangers passing by the flowered mound
Would ask amazed, "Why did ye him to death,
Whose dust-remains you praise with every breath?"
Each worshiper, with hand on burning breast,
A-beam with eagerness and pride confessed:
"We wished to take away his life," he said,
"That we might honor him the more, when dead."
But though into the past I peer and dip,
A pagan with a smile upon the lip,
My secret eyes are on another spot
Within the purlieus of my native plot.
Written in 1914
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