The sun was setting, and its golden glow Deepened the shadows on the village street, And reverent touched the beauty of the head Of Him who sat, in thought, beside the well Of Nazareth. Two women came to fill Their earthen jars; and sent their burdens down To where the water lay; then drew them up. But still the Boy, unmoved, gazed steadily Upon the distant hills, that girded round Jerusalem, the City of the Soul. His eyes were deep as some unfathomed sea, That tosses wreckage on its billowed crest; But hides its treasures ever in the caves, That men shall never touch, or touching die. “How strange the Boy,” one woman softly said As back they went, their burdens on their heads. “Yet He is Joseph’s Son,” the other spoke, “And Joseph is my neighbor, a just man; But not more lettered than the other men, Your own and mine. He is not priest nor scribe That he could teach such wisdom to his Son. And it doth sometimes seem the Boy is wise Beyond His years, with knowledge overmuch.” “His mother, whom I know,” her friend replied, “As Mary, sweeps the shavings from the floor, Cooks the poor fare for Joseph and her Son, Cares for the water, and her jar brings here As we do every day, who know not much Beyond the things we hear from holy men. Yet strange is Mary too; I know not where To match the peace that’s on her tranquil brow; Though, through it all, I’ve seen the Shadow there The dread of days to come, though all resigned. So like His mother is this only Son In beauty, in the peace that’s on His face; But sometimes, deeper still, the Shadow falls Across His features. Look! behold it now. For it doth speak the dread of awful things, More awful than the ruin of a world!”