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The Spike: or, Victoria College Review, June 1915

The Sister of Jesus

The Sister of Jesus.

Fair as the lilies on your banner broidered,
Sweet as their namesakes growing 'mid the grass,
Bright as your sword miraculously given,
And never dimming tho' the ages pass,
Such is the fame of you
Dear is the name of you,
Joan, little daughter of God.

Jesus lived in Galilee, Jesus, Mary's son,
And the men who listed understood him not.
God was his father and knew him for his son;
Men thought him evil, and bitter was his lot.
Joan, the maiden, lived in France, many long years after
And the folk who knew her, understood her not.
God knew his daughter, speaking to her oft-times;
Men thought her evil, and bitter was her lot.

Weak and poor was Jesus, yet His thought was mighty—
In love all powerful he would save the earth;
Men should cease from hating, war would be forgotten,
Peace should reign triumphant, peace and goodly mirth,
Weak was Joan the maiden, yet her thought was might—
In love all powerful she would free her land,
Men should cease from fighting, ravage be forgotten,
Peace at last triumphant, France would happy stand.

page 57

Jesus loved his fellows, yet he wandered lonely,
Harking on the mountains to the voice of God;
Then upon his mission, never looking backward,
Healing and blessing, serene His way he trod.
Joan too loved, her comrades, yet she wandered lonely,
Harking in the woodlands to the voice of God;
Then, upon her mission, never looking backward,
Freeing and blessing, serene her way she trod.

Jesus was unlettered, yet his cruel accusers
Never could confound him, never could dismay;
All their clever cunning he, so wise, defeated
Only frenzied evil made of him their prey.
Joan, too, was unlettered, yet her cruel accusers
Never could confound her, never could dismay;
Weak she was, and weary, yet they could not trap her,
Only frenzied evil made of her their pies.

Jesus they crucified, let him die in torment,
After they had mocked him, beaten him and curst
Him, whose love so wondrous filled the earth with beauty—
Him, who lived nobly as no man else has durst.
Joan to flames was given, let to die in torment,
After they had starved her, tortured her, and curst
Her, whose love so wondrous filled all France with beauty,
Her, who lived so nobly as no one else has durst.

Fair are the churches, built your name to honour,
Sweet are the prayers that thence to Heaven fly.
Bright are the windows pictured with your story,
And never dimming tho' the years sweet by,
Such be the fame of you
Cherished the name of you
Joan, little daughter of God.

—Y.X.Z.