Song of the Troubadour
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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