And the brother stood up in the pulpit,
Stood up there in the neat village church,
And he preached of the pool of Bethesda,
Where the poor lame man lay in the porch

Waiting for the invisible mercy,
That shall healing and blessedness bring,
For those soft waters never were troubled,
Until swept by the life angel's wing.

But was that cottage home a Bethesda?
Was the porch up the dark narrow stair?
Were the thoughts of the lonely sister
Brighter made by a fond brother's care?

Ah who knows!--for the chair now is empty,
And the impotent girl is away,
While the night and the darkness covered
Such a deed from the light of the day.

Did she struggle for her dear existence?
Did the wild night winds bear off her cry?
Ere the pitiless, swift surging waters,
Caught and smothered her agony;

And again when the black, whirling eddy,
Drew her down to its cold, rocky bed,
Who was it that stood so remorseless
On the strong ice arched over her head?