Mary Jane Katzmann Lawson
The Face in the Cathedral
IT was one of those grand cathedrals,
“A poem in wood and stone,”
Fashioned by master-builders,
For the glory of God alone.
The sound of hammer and chisel
From morning till night was there,
As it rose in its Gothic grandeur,
A temple so vast and fair!
Workmen from every nation
With skill and craft had planned
Column and nave and chancel,
All wrought with cunning hand.
Strength was inlaid with beauty—
A goodly sight to see
The rainbow light through the mullioned panes
Of that glorious sanctuary!
One day past the crowd of watchers
Came a man with silver hair,
And asked of the master-builder
For leave to labor there.
The workmen stood in wonder,
For the stranger’s eyes were dim,
And the hands so thin and nerveless
Ne’er told of work in him.
The master smiled as he answered,
“Our men must be strong and true,
Able, as well as willing,
For the work they have to do;
Your skill and your strength are over.”
“Try me,” the old man said,
“Let me but work in the windowed niche
Of the turret above my head.”
And the master in pity yielded
To the pleading of voice and eye.
The old man climbed the minster stairs,
To the window aslant the sky;
And there where the sunrise glory
Fell first through the diamond pane,
And pillar and arch and chancel
Were bathed in golden rain,
Day after day on the panel
He had won from the builder’s grace,
His trembling hands were busy,
Carving a single face;
Silent, and always keeping
From watchers and workers aloof,
There by the oriel window,
Under the fretted roof.
But once when the sun was setting,
And the minster’s walls were dim,
The workmen waited and listened—
What had befallen him?
He stood not before the panel,
Nor came down the lofty stair,
Yet the light of the turret window
Was shining upon him there!
For he lay in the quiet shadow
That follows the setting sun;
His tired hands were folded,—
The old man’s work was done!
And fresh from the shining panel,
Finished with perfect grace,
Looked down on the pale dead artist
A pure, young, tender face,
Fresh in its dewy softness,
As a rose in the light may glow,
The face that had made the sunshine
Of his life in the long ago;
And the love, through whose perfect fulness
Our nature becomes divine,
Had transferred from his faithful keeping
That face to this holy shrine.
There in its place of beauty,
Eyes turned to the rising sun,
He had made her face immortal,—
He died, for his work was done!
In that grand old English temple
There are marvels of wondrous skill,
Where the brain and hand of the craftsman
Have worked with a perfect will;
But naught has the grace and beauty
Of the face in the niche above;—
Their work was for gain or glory,
But his was done for Love!