The Coorse Cratur.

A poem by George MacDonald

The Lord gaed wi' a crood o' men
Throu Jericho the bonny;
'Twas ill the Son o' Man to ken
Mang sons o' men sae mony:

The wee bit son o' man Zacchay
To see the Maister seekit;
He speilt a fig-tree, bauld an' shy,
An' sae his shortness ekit.

But as he thoucht to see his back,
Roun turnt the haill face til 'im,
Up luikit straucht, an' til 'im spak--
His hert gaed like to kill 'im.

"Come doun, Zacchay; bestir yersel;
This nicht I want a lodgin."
Like a ripe aipple 'maist he fell,
Nor needit ony nudgin.

But up amang the unco guid
There rase a murmurin won'er:
"This is a deemis want o' heed,
The man's a special sinner!"

Up spak Zacchay, his hert ableeze:
"Half mine, the puir, Lord, hae it;
Gien oucht I've taen by ony lees,
Fourfauld again I pay it!"

Then Jesus said, "This is a man!
His hoose I'm here to save it;
He's are o' Abraham's ain clan,
An' siclike has behavit!

I cam the lost to seek an' win."--
Zacchay was are he wantit:
To ony man that left his sin
His grace he never scantit.

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