Abou Ben Zigmund (may his tribe be blessed!)
Awoke to find an unexpected guest
Brighter than the moonlight on the forest floor
Where he had slept in peace an hour or more –
An angel, scraping with a stick in dirt.
“Pray, Being, what words do you insert
Into the virgin loam, this bed of trees?”
So spoke Ben Zigmund, rising from his knees
To see what answer vision might afford.
“I write the names of those who love the Lord,”
The angel answered, and Ben Zigmund pled
To know if his name therein might be read.
“Nay,” the angel said, and Zigmund, saddened,
Said, “Then write me in as one by all life gladdened.”
More scraping, then the angel disappeared,
But in the morning, when Ben Zigmund peered
To see what creature loved the Lord the best,
Ben Zigmund’s name it was led all the rest.
