Noiseless and with bare head you tread
Here into the farmer’s loghouse,
Where in stillness and with the spirit’s flame
The Lord a holy people prepares.
On high stands the preacher; no minister,
Consecrated by the congregation’s prayer,
Has at this simple church fete
The Word’s service among the sons of the valley;
It is one of the people, one of those
Who in daily struggle with life’s distress,
Raised in a pious but poor home,
Ponders lonely over sin and death,
Sees the evil’s power in his inner self,
Finds at last, though, a road to peace,
And who now, from sheer love,
With his riches others’ need will ease.
He is not on wrong track; he has not
By himself solved life’s puzzle;
Through the Word he found a way to salvation,
The law disciplined him to the grace of God!!
Therefore he now stands before the people,
No doubt a layman, though a faithful preacher
Of God’s counsel to salvation for those
Who in the faith their sins repent.
See, how the spirit shines in his eye,
See, how mildly he the Lord’s pain interprets,
See, how he presses faithfully to his heart
The rich treasure he received!
For each he has a word;
For so endless deep is the spring of mercy,
That if we even would eternally draw,
Its riches from the depth were just as great.
Pauper in the sick-bed ponders
With his longing to take his leave,
Today a message he received from Jesus Christ
That God will soon his prayer answer.
The maiden, bent in a stream of tears,
Though still a child at mother’s side,
Wakens from her sweet childhood dream
And understands that she, too, will suffer.
Can you see the farmer in his log chair,
Broad chested and brown from sun and wind,
Proudly as his old royal relatives -
Can you see how he today his hands are folding?
Can you see him, the secret sinner,
Who his dismal gaze turns to the earth,
While the handsome young boy blessed stands,
With each word which the grace proclaims him.
Oh, it can be seen the Lord is here,
That not the smallest word here goes to waste,
The seed which he today puts down
Will grow, earlier or later.-
Don’t you believe, though, that this doubting man,
Who rests his cheeks upon his hands,
Long can hold his stand against the Word,
Before he falls before his conqueror!
The neighbor behind him, with the high forehead,
The arms crossed over his chest
Doubt not that he from now on will confirm,
The Word--the Lord’s Word-has emphasis and might!
Mind the grey-haired and his old wife,
The patriarchs at the high table:
They gave up many things in their lives;
What they kept, though, was the Bible.
It is there; while the grey-haired listens,
His wife looks at him with sharpened gaze;
For a self-made teaching he exchanges
Not the God’s Word he from the Lord obtained.
Well done, old man! Tell it to the young,
Handsome swain, who sits there near you,
Gazing at him, whose blazing fire
Throw upon himself the radiant light!
Tell him he shall test well and weigh
The spirits, if they, too, are of God;
Many call themselves His messengers
Though they own no part in Him at all,
This one is of God; a source of life
Streams from him with blessed comfort,
Even to the sinner who so quietly
Presses her child to her breast.
Yes-in this beautiful landscape
Is placed a holy, ideal World.
The Word of the Deity in its perfect might
Among Norway’s mountains here are presented.
Oh, then you are yourself, oh, art a power
Who with the Word in sister-pact stands:
The Word creates it all by the lord’s spirit,
You portray it with master-hand;
Oh, so we rightly the mission of both understood!
The art is the power of the beauty on earth,
But the truth’s power is in God’s Word.
Each are forms of the eternal good.
P. A. JENSEN
To Be Continued....
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