OH! ON THE PLAINS OF BETHEL by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER

Lo! on the plains of Bethel lay
An outworn lad, unhoused, alone,
His couch the tawny mother clay,
His pillow that storm-haunted stone;
The hollow winds howled down the star-lit plain,
All white and wild with highborn wintry rain.
Yet here God's ladder was let down,
Yea, only here for aye and aye!
Not in the high-walled, splendid town,
Not to the throned king feasting high,
But far beneath the storied Syrian stars
God's ladder fell from out the golden bars.
And ever thus. Take heart! to some
The hand of fortune pours her horn
Of plenty, smiling where they come;
And some to wit and some to wealth are born,
And some are born to pomp and splendid ease;
But lo! God's shining ladder leans to none of these.

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