Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - The Pilgrim of God
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happened in the world without it being the will of
God.
“Whither wilt Thou lead me?” he said. “I am
a feather, driven by the breath of Thy spirit. I am
a ball in Thy hands. Whither wilt Thou lead me?
Why dost Thou close the doors of my home against
me!”
And he went away from his home, thinking it
was God’s will he should do so.
At sunrise he stood on the crest of Broby Hill
and looked over the valley. The people did not
think their friend had come. No poor and troubled
soul had wreathed garlands of the evergreen
cranberry leaves and hung them over the house doors.
Over the thresholds he would tread no sweet-scented
lavender or flowers from the hedges had been strewn.
Mothers had not lifted their children high in their
arms that they might see him as he came. The huts
had not been tidied nor the dark hearths hidden by
fragrant juniper. The men did not work with eager
industry that he might be gladdened by the sight
of well-tilled fields and straightly digged ditches.
Oh, as he stood there, his anxious eyes saw the
ravages made by the drought, saw the scorched
harvests, and that the people did n’t seem to care
to prepare the ground for the next year’s crop. He
looked up to the blue mountains, and the sharp
morning sunshine showed him the tract of woods
burned brown by the forest fires. He saw the
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