They tore them from their mo­ther’s arms
And from their child­ish play,
They said, “We must have vic­tims twain
For hun­gry waves today.
The ocean god­dess wakes from sleep,
She stretch­es out her hand,
And if she loose the wa­ter-floods
They will o’er­whelm the land.

Her voice is in the ris­ing storm,
Her sha­dow dims the skies,
She shrieks aloud in ev­ery blast
For hu­man sac­ri­fice!

They drive the child­ren down the beach—
Ah! work of shame and sin—
And bind them fast to wood­en stakes
Where swift the tide comes in;
And then to face their aw­ful doom
The two young crea­tures wait,
While on the dyke the ga­ther­ing crowd
Looks down to see their fate.

Ah! mother, vain are all your pray­ers;
Your sobs and tears how vain!
Does migh­ty ocean god­dess reck
Of hu­man grief or pain?
The tide comes rush­ing mad­ly in,
The winds blow fresh and free,
You scarce can mark the child­ren’s heads
Above the an­gry sea.

The throngs in­crease, the hea­then king
Comes down and takes his place,
And at his side S. Wolf­ram stands
With sad and trou­bled face:
Vain all his pray­ers and preach­ing, vain
His toil by day and night;
This peo­ple walk in dark­ness yet,
And will not see the light.

Nay, I’ll be­lieve, King Rad­bod cries,
Your God is strong to save,
If you can bring those help­less lads
From yon­der wa­te­ry grave.
And loud he laughed—the mock­ing throng
Replied with laugh­ter loud;
But loud­er Wolf­ram’s an­swer rang
Above the jeer­ing crowd.

The God I serve is strong to save
On ocean as on land;
The ve­ry wa­ter-floods He holds
In hol­low of His hand,
And if He wills that I shall live,
No wave shall touch my feet;
And if He wills that I shall die,
Then such a death were sweet.

He turned him from the mon­arch’s side,
The peo­ple held their breath;
Who dares to face a sea like that
Prepares for cer­tain death:
The foam­ing waves rush wildly in,
And thun­der on the shore;
You could not hear the child­ren’s cries
Above that migh­ty roar.

Yet swift­ly down the roc­ky beach
Went on the saint­ly man;
Thrice fool is he, the peo­ple cried,
Who tempts the God­dess Ran.
And then a sud­den si­lence fell
On all who stood around,
For Wolf­ram walked up­on the sea
As though on so­lid ground.

As if upon a hill­side green,
Amid the flood he stood,
And cut the child­ren’s cru­el bonds
That bound them to the wood.
He drew them from the swel­tering tide—
Now, no­thing fear, spake he,
But call on Him who walked the waves
In dist­ant Ga­li­lee.

And tak­ing in his kind­ly grasp
A child on ei­ther hand,
Across the rag­ing, track­less waste
The three came back to land.
O mo­ther, clasp again your sons
Safe and un­harmed! he cried;
Now will ye not be­lieve on Him—
On Christ the cru­ci­fied?

With wet the child­ren’s rai­ments streamed
But Wolf­ram walked dry-shod;
Then with one voice the peo­ple cried,
“How great is Wolf­ram’s God!
The gods we serve are not as this,
With all their vaunt­ed pow­ers:
O Wolf­ram, teach us of your God,
And we will make Him ours!

Then wash us in the mys­tic flood
That cleans­eth sin away,
And mark us with the Ho­ly Sign
We take for ours to-day.
And Wolf­ram rendered thanks to Heav’n
With eyes that glad tears dim,
That Christ uplift­ed on His Cross
Draws all men un­to Him.

Thus with its dou­ble mean­ings quaint,
The strange old le­gend runs,
How Wolf­ram won, for God, the hearts
Of Fries­land’s sa­vage sons.

Arranged from Chris­tian Burke,
The Flow­er­ing of the Al­mond-Tree, 1896