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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required A troubadour came by my house; beneath my window he did sing. I had never heard such melody or listened to like lyrics ring. He sang a song I understood, a song of love for me alone; and , gazing through the latticed frame, I knew that I would be his own. The haunting strains, they wound their way, even before I could resist, my heart was bound by cords of love; forever to his song I would list. "I long to follow you." I cried, "fair, wandering minstrel, gay and free; I want to be your gypsy bride and sing sweet songs of love with thee." He bade me follow with a look-- a look my tongue cannot describe-- so tender that my heart leaped up. "I will follow you! Oh, yes!" I cried. And then I saw, just as I turned to go with love forevermore, what I had thought a laurel wreath was but a crown of thorns he wore. The robe which from his shoulders hung-- it had seemed spotless, white as snow; but, then I saw it stained with blood. yet, still with him I longed to go. His feet and hands were bruised and torn; "oh, who had wounded one so good!" Just then I saw the lute he played was but a rugged cross of wood. "Oh, Love!" I cried, "dear, fairest one, who dared to harm and hurt you so!" and then I heard the song again... "It was for you; did you not know?" "For me? I do not understand; for just today I heard your song." He turned to speak what now I know. "My love," he said, "I called you long." We sing the song together now; each day is but a new refrain. Yet, still I marvel when I hear a note of joy wrung out of pain. I did not know when first I heard his music calling to my heart that love is not triumphant till wounded, pierced and torn apart. Copyright, 1987, Faye Gibson
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