The Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran

by Kahlil Gibran

  Humanity looks upon Jesus the Nazarene as a poor-born Who suffered misery and humiliation with all of the weak. And He is pitied, for Humanity believes He was crucified painfully.… And all that Humanity offers to Him is crying and wailing and lamentation. For centuries Humanity has been worshipping weakness in the person of the Saviour.

  The Nazarene was not weak! He was strong and is strong! But the people refuse to heed the true meaning of strength.

  Jesus never lived a life of fear, nor did He die suffering or complaining.… He lived as a leader; He was crucified as a crusader; He died with a heroism that frightened His killers and tormentors.

  Jesus was not a bird with broken wings; He was a raging tempest who broke all crooked wings. He feared not His persecutors nor His enemies. He suffered not before His killers. Free and brave and daring He was. He defied all despots and oppressors. He saw the contagious pustules and amputated them.… He muted Evil and He crushed Falsehood and He choked Treachery.

  Jesus came not from the heart of the circle of Light to destroy the homes and build upon their ruins the convents and monasteries. He did not persuade the strong man to become a monk or a priest, but He came to send forth upon this earth a new spirit, with power to crumble the foundation of any monarchy built upon human bones and skulls.… He came to demolish the majestic palaces, constructed upon the graves of the weak, and crush the idols, erected upon the bodies of the poor. Jesus was not sent here to teach the people to build magnificent churches and temples amidst the cold wretched huts and dismal hovels.… He came to make the human heart a temple, and the soul an altar, and the mind a priest.

  These were the missions of Jesus the Nazarene, and these are the teachings for which He was crucified. And if Humanity were wise, she would stand today and sing in strength the song of conquest and the hymn of triumph.

  Oh, Crucified Jesus, Who are looking sorrowfully from Mount Calvary at the sad procession of the Ages, and hearing the clamour of the dark nations, and understanding the dreams of Eternity … Thou art, on the Cross, more glorious and dignified than one thousand kings upon one thousand thrones in one thousand empires.…

  Thou art, in the agony of death, more powerful than one thousand generals in one thousand wars.…

  With Thy sorrows, Thou art more joyous than Spring with its flowers.…

  With Thy suffering, Thou art more bravely silent than the crying angels of heaven.…

  Before Thy lashers, Thou art more resolute than the mountain of rock.…

  Thy wreath of thorns is more brilliant and sublime than the crown of Bahram.… The nails piercing Thy hands are more beautiful than the sceptre of Jupiter.…

  The spatters of blood upon Thy feet are more resplendent than the necklace of Ishtar.

  Forgive the weak who lament Thee today, for they do not know how to lament themselves.…

  Forgive them, for they do not know that Thou hast conquered death with death, and bestowed life upon the dead.…

  Forgive them, for they do not know that Thy strength still awaits them.…

  Forgive them, for they do not know that every day is Thy day.

  MY COUNTRYMEN

  WHAT do you seek, My Countrymen?

  Do you desire that I build for

  You gorgeous palaces, decorated

  With words of empty meaning, or

  Temples roofed with dreams? Or

  Do you command me to destroy what

  The liars and tyrants have built?

  Shall I uproot with my fingers

  What the hypocrites and the wicked

  Have implanted? Speak your insane

  Wish!

  What is it you would have me do,

  My Countrymen? Shall I purr like

  The kitten to satisfy you, or roar

  Like the lion to please myself? I

  Have sung for you, but you did not

  Dance; I have wept before you, but

  You did not cry. Shall I sing and

  Weep at the same time?

  Your souls are suffering the pangs

  Of hunger, and yet the fruit of

  Knowledge is more plentiful than

  The stones of the valleys.

  Your hearts are withering from

  Thirst, and yet the springs of

  Life are streaming about your

  Homes—why do you not drink?

  The sea has its ebb and flow,

  The moon has its fullness and

  Crescents, and the Ages have

  Their winter and summer, and all

  Things vary like the shadow of

  An unborn God moving between

  Earth and sun, but Truth cannot

  Be changed, nor will it pass away;

  Why, then, do you endeavour to

  Disfigure its countenance?

  I have called you in the silence

  Of the night to point out the

  Glory of the moon and the dignity

  Of the stars, but you startled

  From your slumber and clutched

  Your swords in fear, crying,

  “Where is the enemy? We must kill

  Him first!” At morningtide, when

  The enemy came, I called to you

  Again, but now you did not wake

  From your slumber, for you were

  Locked in fear, wrestling with

  The processions of spectres in

  Your dreams.

  And I said unto you, “Let us climb

  To the mountain top and view the

  Beauty of the world.” And you

  Answered me, saying, “In the depths

  Of this valley our fathers lived,

  And in its shadows they died, and in

  Its caves they were buried. How can

  We depart this place for one which

  They failed to honour?”

  And I said unto you, “Let us go to

  The plain that gives it bounty to

  The sea.” And you spoke timidly to

  Me, saying, “The uproar of the abyss

  Will frighten our spirits, and the

  Terror of the depths will deaden

  Our bodies.”

  I have loved you, My Countrymen, but

  My love for you is painful to me

  And useless to you; and today I

  Hate you, and hatred is a flood

  That sweeps away the dry branches

  And quavering houses.

  I have pitied your weakness, My

  Countrymen, but my pity has but

  Increased your feebleness, exalting

  And nourishing slothfulness which

  Is vain to Life. And today I see

  Your infirmity which my soul loathes

  And fears.

  I have cried over your humiliation

  And submission; and my tears streamed

  Like crystalline, but could not sear

  Away your stagnant weakness; yet they

  Removed the veil from my eyes.

  My tears have never reached your

  Petrified hearts, but they cleansed

  The darkness from my inner self.

  Today I am mocking at your suffering,

  For laughter is a raging thunder that

  Precedes the tempest and never comes

  After it.

  What do you desire, My Countrymen?

  Do you wish for me to show you

  The ghost of your countenance on

  The face of still water? Come,

  Now, and see how ugly you are!

  Look and meditate! Fear has

  Turned your hair grey as the

  Ashes, and dissipation has grown

  Over your eyes and made them into

  Obscured hollows, and cowardice

  Has touched your cheeks that now

  Appear as dismal pits in the

  Valley, and Death has kissed

  Your lips and left them yellow

  As the Autumn leaves.

  What is it
that you seek, My

  Countrymen? What ask you from

  Life, who does not any longer

  Count you among her children?

  Your souls are freezing in the

  Clutches of the priests and

  Sorcerers, and your bodies

  Tremble between the paws of the

  Despots and the shedders of

  Blood, and your country quakes

  Under the marching feet of the

  Conquering enemy; what may you

  Expect even though you stand

  Proudly before the face of the

  Sun? Your swords are sheathed

  With rust, and your spears are

  Broken, and your shields are

  Laden with gaps; why, then, do

  You stand in the field of battle?

  Hypocrisy is your religion, and

  Falsehood is your life, and

  Nothingness is your ending; why,

  Then, are you living? Is not

  Death the sole comfort of the

  Miserables?

  Life is a resolution that

  Accompanies youth, and a diligence

  That follows maturity, and a

  Wisdom that pursues senility; but

  You, My Countrymen, were born old

  And weak. And your skins withered

  And your heads shrank, whereupon

  You became as children, running

  Into the mire and casting stones

  Upon each other.

  Knowledge is a light, enriching

  The warmth of life, and all may

  Partake who seek it out; but you,

  My Countrymen, seek out darkness

  And flee the light, awaiting the

  Coming of water from the rock,

  And your nation’s misery is your

  Crime.… I do not forgive you

  Your sins, for you know what you

  Are doing.

  Humanity is a brilliant river

  Singing its way and carrying with

  It the mountains’ secrets into

  The heart of the sea; but you,

  My Countrymen, are stagnant

  Marshes infested with insects

  And vipers.

  The Spirit is a sacred blue

  Torch, burning and devouring

  The dry plants, and growing

  With the storm and illuminating

  The faces of the goddesses; but

  You, My Countrymen … your souls

  Are like ashes which the winds

  Scatter upon the snow, and which

  The tempests disperse forever in

  The valleys.

  Fear not the phantom of Death,

  My Countrymen, for his greatness

  And mercy will refuse to approach

  Your smallness; and dread not the

  Dagger, for it will decline to be

  Lodged in your shallow hearts.

  I hate you, My Countrymen, because

  You hate glory and greatness. I

  Despise you because you despise

  Yourselves. I am your enemy, for

  You refuse to realize that you are

  The enemies of the goddesses.

  BEHIND THE GARMENT

  RACHEL woke at midnight and gazed intently at something invisible in the sky of her chamber. She heard a voice more soothing than the whispers of Life, and more dismal than the moaning call of the abyss, and softer than the rustling of white wings, and deeper than the message of the waves.… It vibrated with hope and with futility, with joy and with misery, and with affection for life, yet with desire for death. Then Rachel closed her eyes and sighed deeply, and gasped, saying, “Dawn has reached the extreme end of the valley; we should go toward the sun and meet him.” Her lips were parted, resembling and echoing a deep wound in the soul.

  At that moment the priest approached her bed and felt her hand, but found it as cold as the snow; and when he grimly placed his fingers upon her heart, he determined that it was as immobile as the ages, and as silent as the secret of his heart.

  The reverend father bowed his head in deep despair. His lips quivered as if wanting to utter a divine word, repeated by the phantoms of the night in the distant and deserted valleys.

  After crossing her arms upon her bosom, the priest looked toward a man sitting in an obscured corner of the room, and with a kind and merciful voice he said, “Your beloved has reached the great circle of light. Come, my brother, let us kneel and pray.”

  The sorrowful husband lifted his head; his eyes stared, gazing at the unseen, and his expression then changed as if he saw understanding in the ghost of an unknown God. He gathered the remnants of himself and walked reverently toward the bed of his wife, and knelt by the side of the clergyman who was praying and lamenting and making the sign of the cross.

  Placing his hand upon the shoulder of the grief-stricken husband, the Father said quietly, “Go to the adjoining room, brother, for you are in great need of rest.”

  He rose obediently, walked to the room and threw his fatigued body upon a narrow bed, and in a few moments he was sailing in the world of sleep like a little child taking refuge in the merciful arms of his loving mother.

  The priest remained standing like a statue in the center of the room, and a strange conflict gripped him. And he looked with tearful eyes first at the cold body of the young woman and then through the parted curtain at her husband, who had surrendered himself to the allure of slumber. An hour, longer than an age and more terrible than Death, had already passed, and the priest was still standing between two parted souls. One was dreaming as a field dreams of the coming Spring after the tragedy of Winter, and the other was resting eternally.

  Then the priest came close to the body of the young woman and knelt as if worshipping before the altar; he held her cold hand and placed it against his trembling lips, and looked at her face that was adorned with the soft veil of Death. His voice was at the same time calm as the night and deep as the chasm and faltering as with the hopes of man. And in voice he wept, “Oh Rachel, bride of my soul, hear me! At last I am able to talk! Death has opened my lips so that I can now reveal to you a secret deeper than Life itself. Pain has unpinioned my tongue and I can disclose to you my suffering, more painful than pain. Listen to the cry of my soul, Oh Pure Spirit, hovering between the earth and the firmament. Give heed to the youth who waited for you to come from the field, gazing upon you from behind the trees, in fear of your beauty. Hear the priest, who is serving God, calling to you unashamed, after you have reached the City of God. I have proved the strength of my love by concealing it!”

  Having thus opened his soul, the Father leaned over and printed three long, warm, and mute kisses upon her forehead, eyes and throat, pouring forth all his heart’s secret of love and pain, and the anguish of the years. Then he suddenly withdrew to the dark corner and dropped in agony upon the floor, shaking like an Autumn leaf, as if the touch of her cold face had awakened within him the spirit to repent; whereupon he composed himself and knelt, hiding his face with his cupped hands, and he whispered softly, “God.… Forgive my sin; forgive my weakness, Oh Lord. I could no longer resist disclosing that which You knew. Seven years have I kept the deep secrets hidden in my heart from the spoken word, until Death came and tore them from me. Help me, Oh God, to hide this terrible and beautiful memory which brings sweetness from life and bitterness from You. Forgive me, My Lord, and forgive my weakness.”

  Without looking at the young woman’s corpse, he continued suffering and lamenting until Dawn came and dropped a rosy veil upon those two still images, revealing the conflict of Love and Religion to one man; the peace of Life and Death to the other.

  PEACE

  THE TEMPEST calmed after bending the branches of the trees and leaning heavily upon the grain in the field. The stars appeared as broken remnants of the lightning, but now silence prevailed over all, as if Nature’s war had never been fought.

  At that hour a young woman enter
ed her chamber and knelt by her bed sobbing bitterly. Her heart flamed with agony but she could finally open her lips and say, “Oh Lord, bring him hon fely to me. I have exhausted my tears and can offer no more, oh Lord, full of love and mercy. My patience is drained and calamity is seeking possession of my heart. Save him, oh Lord, from the iron paws of War; deliver him from such unmerciful Death, for he is weak, governed by the strong. Oh Lord, save my beloved, who is Thine own son, from the foe, who is thy foe. Keep him from the forced pathway to Death’s door; let him see me, or come and take me to him.”

  Quietly a young man entered. His head was wrapped in bandage soaked with escaping life.

  He approached her with a greeting of tears and laughter, then took her hand and placed against it his flaming lips. And with a voice which bespoke past sorrow, and joy of union, and uncertainty of her reaction, he said, “Fear me not, for I am the object of your plea. Be glad, for Peace has carried me back safely to you, and humanity has restored what greed essayed to take from us. Be not sad, but smile, my beloved. Do not express bewilderment, for Love has power that dispels Death; charm that conquers the enemy. I am your one. Think me not a spectre emerging from the House of Death to visit your Home of Beauty.

  “Do not be frightened, for I am now Truth, spared from swords and fire to reveal to the people the triumph of Love over War. I am Word uttering introduction to the play of happiness and peace.”

  Then the young man became speechless and his tears spoke the language of the heart; and the angels of Joy hovered about that dwelling, and the two hearts restored the singleness which had been taken from them.

  At dawn the two stood in the middle of the field, contemplating the beauty of Nature injured by the tempest. After a deep and comforting silence, the soldier looked to the east and said to his sweetheart, “Look at the Darkness, giving birth to the Sun.”

  SONG OF THE SOUL

  IN THE DEPTH of my soul there is

  A wordless song—a song that lives

  In the seed of my heart.

  It refuses to melt with ink on

  Parchment; it engulfs my affection

  In a transparent cloak and flows,

  But not upon my lips.

  How can I sigh it? I fear it may

  Mingle with earthly ether;

  To whom shall I sing it? It dwells

  In the house of my soul, in fear of

  Harsh ears.