Here is another story in Library Lady’s Christmas Stories series.
The Mystic Thorn
Adapted From Traditional Sources
Edited by Jane Mouttet
“Three hawthorns also that grow in Wearyall
Do flourish and bare green leaves at Christmas
As fresh as other in May.”
It was Christmas day in the year 63. The autumn colors of red and gold had long since faded from the hills, and the trees that covered the island valley of Glastonbury, the Avalon or Apple Tree Isle of the early Britons, were bare and leafless. The spreading, glass-like waters encircling it gleamed faintly in the pale afternoon light of the winter’s day. The light also fell on the silver stems of the willows and the tall flags and bending reeds and osiers that bordered the marsh island. Westward, the long ranges of hills running seaward were purple in the distance, and their tops were partly hidden by the misty white clouds that rested lightly upon them. To the south rose sharply and abruptly a high, pointed hill, the rock outcropping of Glastonbury.
It was nearing the sunset hour when a little band of men in pilgrim garb, approaching from the west and climbing the long, hilly ridge, came within sight of this “isle of rest.” Twelve pilgrims there were in all, in dress and appearance, very unlike the fair-haired Britons who, at that time, dwelt in the land. One, he who led the way, was an old man. His hair was white, and his long, white beard fell upon his breast, but he was tall and erect and bore no other signs of age. In his hand, he carried a stout hawthorn staff.
The men were climbing slowly up the hill, all weary from long travel. They stopped at the summit of the ridge to look out over the wooded hills, the wide-spreading waters, and the grassy island with its leafless thickets of oak and alder. Sitting down to rest, they spoke one to another of their long journey from the far-distant land of Palestine and of their hope that their pilgrimage might end here.
Those who were with him called their leader Joseph of Arimathea. He had been known among the Jews many years before as a counselor, “a good man, and a just,” and who, when the Savior was crucified on Calvary, had given his grave to receive the body of the Lord.
From this tomb upon the third day came the risen Savior. Still, the people, thinking that Joseph had stolen away the body, seized and imprisoned him in a chamber where there was no window. They fastened the door, put a seal upon the lock, and placed men before the door to guard it. Then the priests and the Levites contrived to what death they should put him, but when they sent for Joseph to be brought forth, he could not be found, though the seal was still upon the lock and the guard before the door.
The disciples of Joseph, as they gathered about their fire in the evening, often told how, at night, as he prayed, the prison chamber had been filled with a light brighter than that of the sun, and Jesus himself had appeared to him and had led him forth unharmed to his own house in Arimathea.
And sometimes they told how, again imprisoned, he had been fed from the Holy Cup from which the Savior had drunk at the “last sad supper with his own” and in which Joseph had caught the blood of his Master when he was on the cross, and how he had been blest with such heavenly visions that the years passed and seemed to him as naught.
Now, after a time, he had been released from prison, but there were people who still doubted him, and so with his friends, Lazarus and Mary Magdalene and Philip and others, he had been driven away from Jerusalem. The small vessel, without oars, rudder, or sail, which had been cast adrift on the Mediterranean, had finally come safely to the coast of Gaul. For many years since then, Joseph had wandered through the land carrying with him two precious relics, the Holy Grail and “that same spear wherewith the Roman pierced the side of Christ.” Now, with a chosen band of disciples, he had finally reached the little-known island of the Britons.
Landing from their little boat in the early morning on this unknown coast, they knelt upon the shore while Joseph “gave a blessing to the God of heaven in a lowly chanted prayer.” Then, “over the brow of the seaward hill,” they had passed, led by an invisible hand singing as they went. All day through dark forests and over reedy swamps, they had made their way, and now at nightfall, tired and wayworn, they rested on the ridged hill which has ever since been known by the name of Wearyall.
During the long day’s march, they had seen few of the people of the land, and these had remained aloof.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by loud cries and shouts, and groups of the native Britons, wild and uncouth in appearance, their half-naked bodies stained blue with woad, were seen coming from different directions up the hill. They were armed with spears, hatchets of bronze, and other rude weapons of olden warfare. Their threatening and menacing cries startled the pilgrim band as they came rapidly nearer. Rising hastily, as though they would flee, the men looked in terror, one toward another. Joseph alone showed no trace of fear, and obedient to a sign from him, they all knelt in prayer upon the hillside.
Then, thrusting his thorny staff into the ground beside him and raising both hands toward heaven, Joseph claimed possession of this new land in the name of his Master, Christ.
“‘This staff hath borne me long and well,’
Then spoke that saint divine,
‘Over mountain and over plain,
On a quest for the Promise sign,
For aye, let it stand in this western land,
And God do no more to me
If there ring not out from this realm about,
Tibi gloria, Domine.'”
His voice ceased, and the men rose from their knees, looking expectantly for the heavenly sign but ready, if need be, to meet the threatened attack with courage.
But stillness had again settled over the hill. Only several yards distant, the Britons had stopped and grouped closely together, gazing in awestruck silence upon the dry and withered staff, which had so often aided Joseph in his wanderings from the Holy Land. Following their gaze, Joseph and his companions turned toward it, and even as they did so, behold! A miracle! The staff took root and grew, and as they watched, they saw it put forth branches and green leaves, fair buds, and milk-white blossoms, which filled the air with their sweet odor.
For a moment, awed and amazed, all stood silent. Wondrously had Joseph’s prayer been answered! This was indeed the heavenly token that had been foretold! Then, with tears of joy, all cried out in one voice, “Our God is with us! Jesus is with us!”
Marveling much at the strange things they had just seen and heard, the
Britons dropped their weapons and fled in haste from the hill.
Then Joseph and his disciples went across the marsh into the valley, where they rested undisturbed.
Word of the miracle thus wrought on Wearyall Hill was soon brought to Arviragus, the heathen king of the time. He gladly welcomed the holy men and gave them the beautiful vale of Avalon whereon to live. There, they built “a little lonely church,” with a roof of rushes and walls of woven twigs and “wattles from the marsh,” the first Christian church to be built in Britain.
There, they dwelt for many years, serving God, fasting and praying, and Joseph taught the half-barbarous Britons, who gathered to listen to him, the faith of Christ.
* * * * *
Time passed, and the little, low, wattled church became a great and beautiful abbey. Many pilgrims there were who came to worship at the shrine of St. Joseph, to drink from the holy well which sprang from the foot of Chalice Hill where the Holy Cup lay buried, and to watch the budding of the mystic thorn, which, year after year, when the snows of Christmas covered the hills, put forth its holy blossoms, “a symbol of God’s promise, care and love.”
Long, long afterward, there came a time when there was war in the land, and one day, a rough soldier who did not care about the sacred tree’s heavenly origin cut it down. Only a flat stone now marks the place where it once stood and where Joseph’s staff burst into bloom. But other trees had been grown from slips of the miraculous thorn, and these, “mindful of our Lord,” still keep the sacred birthday and blossom each year on Christmas Day.
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