Go tell it on the mountain - James Baldwin [30]
‘This may be my last time,
I don’t know.’
Behind him the door opened and the wintry air rushed in. He turned to see, entering the door, his father, his mother, and his aunt. It was only the presence of his aunt that shocked him, for she had never entered this church before: she seemed to have been summoned to witness a bloody act. It was in all her aspect, quiet with a dreadful quietness, as she moved down the aisle behind his mother and knelt for a moment beside his mother and father to pray. John knew that it was the hand of the Lord that had led her to this place, and his heart grew cold. The Lord was riding on the wind to-night. What might that wind have spoken before the morning came?
PART TWO
THE PRAYER OF THE SAINTS
And they cried with a loud voice,
saying, How long, O Lord, holy and true,
dost thou not judge and avenge
our blood on them that dwell on the earth
1 FLORENCE’S PRAYER
Light and life to all He brings,
Risen with healing in His wings!
Florence raised her voice in the only song she could remember that her mother used to sing:
‘It’s me, it’s me, it’s me, oh, Lord,
Standing in the need of prayer.’
Gabriel turned to stare at her, in astonished triumph that his sister should at last be humbled. She did not look at him. Her thoughts were all on God. After a moment, the congregation and the piano joined her:
‘Not my father, not my mother
But it’s me, oh, Lord.’
She knew that Gabriel rejoiced, not that her humility might lead her to grace, but only that some private anguish had brought her low: her songs revealed that she was suffering, and this her brother was glad to see. This had always been his spirit. Nothing had ever changed it; nothing ever would. For a moment her pride stood up; the resolution that had brought her to this place to-night faltered, and she felt that if Gabriel was the Lord’s anointed, she would rather die and endure Hell for all eternity than bow before His altar. But she strangled her pride, rising to stand with them in the holy space before the altar, and still singing:
‘Standing in the need of prayer.’
Kneeling as she had not knelt for many years, and in this company before the altar, she gained again from the song the meaning it had held for her mother, and gained a new meaning for herself. As a child, the song had made her see a woman, dressed in black, standing in infinite mists alone, waiting for the form of the Son of God to lead her through the white fire. This woman now returned to her, more desolate; it was herself, not knowing where to put her foot; she waited trembling, for the mists to be parted that she might walk in peace. That long road, her life, which she had followed for sixty groaning years, had led her at last to her mother’s starting-place, the altar of the Lord. For her feet stood on the edge of that river which her mother, rejoicing, had crossed over. And would the Lord now reach out His hand to Florence and heal and save? But, going down before the scarlet cloth at the foot of the golden cross, it came to her that she had forgotten how to pray.
Her mother has taught her that the way to pray was to forget everything and everyone but Jesus; to pour out of the heart, like water from a bucket, all evil thoughts, all thoughts of self, all malice for one’s enemies; to come boldly, and yet more humbly than the little child, before the Giver of all good things. Yet, in Florence’s heart to-night hatred and bitterness weighed like granite, pride refused to abdicate from the throne it had held so long. Neither love nor humility had led her to the altar, but only fear. And God did not hear the prayers of the fearful, for the hearts of the fearful held no belief. Such prayers could rise no higher that the lips that uttered them.
Around her she heard the saints’