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Full Online Book HomePoemsWhat Went Ye Out For To See?
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What Went Ye Out For To See? Post by :vjpsb Category :Poems Author :Margaret Moran D. Mcdougall Date :November 2011 Read :2013

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What Went Ye Out For To See?

On Jordan's banks gathered an eager crowd,
The Royal city poured its dwellers out;
The vintage was untouched in Ephraim;
No fisher's boat from Magdala put out.

Up from Engedi's fountain, down the slope
Of terraced Olivet, an eager throng,
Filled with one purpose, one absorbing hope,
Unto the Jordan take their way along.

The priestly robe, the saintly Pharisee,
The publican, the sinner, all were there,
The doubting, sneering, questioning Sadducee,
Just risen from his seat, the scorner's chair.

All carried there the consciousness of sin;
A wish for some one having power to save;
Ready to do some great thing peace to win;
So came they to the ford by Jordan's wave.

What did they see? not one in purple vest,
Who lives deliciously, abides by choice
In palaces, and he in hair doth drest,
And leathern girdled is--Is what? a voice.

In poor array, the greatest prophet stood
Beside the waters where the banks are green.
"Art thou the looked-for one? Will Jordan's flood
Touched by thy hand have power to make us clean?"

"The Jordan will not wash your guilt and shame;
Sin must be washed away in sinless blood."
And looking upon Jesus as he came,
He said to them, "Behold the Lamb of God."

(The end)
Margaret Moran D. McDougall's poem: What Went Ye Out For To See?

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The Iroquois Side Of The Story The Iroquois Side Of The Story

The Iroquois Side Of The Story
I, an Iroquois brave,Speak from my forest grave,Where by Utawa's wave I sleep in glory.Listen, pale faces, then,Let years roll back again,While of Iroquois men I tell the story,We were the foremost race,That roamed the forest space;None stood before our face, Rousing our fierce wrath;By Stadacona's steep,Where Santee's waters sleep,Prairie broad, valley deep, Have been our war path.Eries by inland seas,Mountain bred Cherokees,Of us, Hodenosaunees, With fear grew frantic;Feared us who made their home,Under the pinetrees

Gone (mournfully, Mournfully) Gone (mournfully, Mournfully)

Gone (mournfully, Mournfully)
Mournfully, mournfully All around me are crying,For my dark-eyed baby boy Is dying, dyingTenderly, tenderly To him I am clinging,But he slips from my fond arms, Death bells are ringingJoyfully, joyfully Angels are receivingMy babe--by the empty cot I must sit grieving.(The end)Margaret Moran D. McDougall's poem: Gone