I hear thy words, dear brother, and they seem The product of no peaceful frame of mind. Yet 'tis a peaceful scene of former days Which they have reawakened in my soul. 'Twas one Good Friday, many years ago, I saw the scene of which I speak to thee. It happened that upon that day the man Who wore my brother's features, said to me: 'From source divine hath sprung the human soul; It can in death dive down to nature's depths, In time it will set spirit free from death.' Not until afterwards was I aware That these words are the motto of our knights.
Alas! my sister, that thy lips should speak Those evil words, which our opponents take As revelation of the highest truth.
I have at heart no sympathy at all With outward acts committed by the knights; I truly serve the creed that nourished thee. But never could I make myself believe That men who guide the footsteps of the soul By such instruction toward so high a goal Walk not themselves the path that Christ hath trod. The Spirit's pupil am I, staunch and true, And I confess that it is my belief That on that day, my brother's spirit strove To speak of aims that lead the soul to peace.
The powers of destiny have not ordained Peace for the soul, it seems, for thee and me; They take our father from us that same hour That sees him once again restored to us.
My faculties are clouded o'er with pain When of our father thus I hear thee speak. Thy heart would draw thee to his side in love, And yet thou tremblest at the very thought Of union with him whilst he is alive. Thou followest our leader in good faith, Yet canst not hear the messages of love Which his commands so tenderly convey. A dark enigma faceth me; I see The goodness of thy heart, thy steadfast faith, And yet must shudder at the deep abyss That yawns so horribly betwixt you twain. And did not hope live on to comfort me, And tell me love is never overcome I should lack courage to endure this pain.
Dear sister, thou hast yet to learn the power Of thought, once it hath gripped a human soul. This is no case of son opposing sire; But one thought from another turns away. Thought is the sovereign whom my soul obeys; Did I refuse her homage I should be In very truth my spirit's murderer.