The rugged sides of Palomar are deep
With canyons cleft, where raging floods have made
Their downward path and held their course unchained.
Beyond the eagle’s nest and rocky crag,
Where giant arborvitaes throw their plumes
Athwart the sky; and crystal waters cold
And pure, come sparkling from a mountain spring;
By bending boughs and tangled vines shut out
From view, the hidden cabin stood; and there
Today it stands, and there has stood unkept,
In mystery wrapped, a hundred years or more
Since its last tenant left it there alone.
It stands where it was builded long ago;
Yet not the same as in the days of old,
For long disuse and winters’ storms and rain
Have left their mark; but still enough remains
To show that in the hands of him who built
No joiner’s tools were held; divested of
All metals with sharp edge save only axe
And auger, which he plied with master hand
To hew the timbers smooth, and cut and fit
The doors and frames; and fitting, through these sent
The auger’s teeth to clear the way for pins
Of wood with which he made all fast and strong.
A strange, pathetic story centers round
This lonely spot; the story of a true
And faithful soul who counted life best spent
By those who strive to crucify the flesh,
And emulate--as best poor mortal may--
The life of Him who lived and died for love;
For love of those who loved and hated Him.