Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - In the old Tower - III
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The same silver grey olive trees, the same sombre
cypresses standing out against the soft evening
sky. I heard the bells of Assisi ringing the
Angelus and there he came, the pale Umbrian
saint, slowly descending the winding hill path
with brother Leo and brother Leonardo at his
side. Swift-winged birds fluttered and sang
round his head, others fed from his outstretched
hands, others nestled fearlessly among the folds
of his cassock. St. Francis stood still by my side
and looked at my judges with his wonderful eyes,
those eyes that neither God nor man nor beast
could meet with anger in theirs.
Moses sank down in his seat letting fall his Ten
Commandments.
“Always he,” he murmured bitterly.
“Always he, the frail dreamer with his flock of birds
and his following of beggars and outcasts. So
frail and yet strong enough to stay Thy
avenging hand, O Lord! Art Thou then not Jehovah,
the jealous God, who descended in fire and smoke
on Mount Sinai and made the people of Israel
tremble with awe? Was it not Thy anger that
bade me stretch forth my avenging rod to smite
every herb in the field and break every tree that
all men and beasts should die? Was it not Thy
voice that spake in my Ten Commandments?
Who will fear the flash of Thy lightning, O Lord!
if the thunder of Thy wrath can be silenced by
the twitter of a bird?”
My head sank on St. Francis’ shoulder.
I was dead, and I did not know it.
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