The messengers sped forth and Abgar followed;
Slowly he rode a grieving, youthful king,
Over high mountains and wide stretching fields,
And rivers as blue as the heaven’s arching dome.
And when he reached Armenia’s steep hills
And reached the city, his mother welcomed him,
Suppressing tears and just a feeble smile
That tried to hide them, spoke their eloquence.
“Welcome, dear child! Be welcomed to your home,”
She whispered as she led Abgar away
To his secluded, longed-for quiet room
Where the dying rays of the swiftly setting sun
Crept through a darkening wall of cypress trees.
An ivory inlaid bedstead stood prepared;
And across the polished/ mosaic floor were spread
Colorful Persian carpetries and cloths;
A harp was hanging near the open door;
And in the corners, vessels of heavy gold
Held blushing apples and pomegranates.
King Abgar knew full well what all this meant.
According to his people’s old belief,
The angels linger over a sick-room bed
Waiting until the Lord of life and death
Gives forth the sign for the soul to either flee
Or-else remain within a healthy form.
These Persian rugs for the angels are prepared
To rest upon, the while the tempting fruits
Refresh them with their scent, and the stringed harp
Hangs near so every visitor that comes
To cheer the sick man with a kindly word
Or with a warming hand-clasp or a smile,
Can strike the silver strings
To amuse the souls . . .
All this Abgar knew, as he gave his mother a melancholy smile,
Removed the harp, and rested peacefully
His weary head sinking into the lap
Of her who bore him. The mother slowly rose,
As if to show her strength, she stilled a rising sigh,
And smothering her weeping soul’s lament,
Began to humor him with softly spoken words:
“Apparently, Rome cannot heal all hearts?
I thought as much and while my child was gone,
Seeking in vain, away from our shores,
Wherewith to still a grieving, ailing soul,
78
