by Andrew Vasey I was in the pub one winter night - A quick one for the road - When through the door there came a man, With age and sorrow bowed. His face was deeply wrinkled, His movements pained and slow; From his threadbare clothes he brushed A sprinkling of snow. I pitied him and asked him, "Who in heaven's name are you?" "In heaven's name indeed," he said, "I'm called the Wandering Jew." My curiosity was roused; I bought the chap a beer. I told him that his story Was one I'd like to hear. He sipped his drink and as he did A tear ran down his face. "I'd rather not," he said to me, "Relive my great disgrace." I pitied him and asked him "What bad thing did you do?" "As punishment," he told me, "I became the Wandering Jew." It seems he had a cobbler's shop In old Jerusalem town, And at that spot the Son of God Had laid his burden down. The burden was a wooden cross He carried to the hill; The cobbler pushed him from the door - For this he suffered still. I pitied him and told him There'd been other miscreants, too. "But none," he said, "endured the fate That befell the Wandering Jew." Apparently that fate entailed A journey he abhorred - A journey that would only end With the coming of the Lord. And every hundred years or so, He made me understand, He'd go to sleep and wake again A very different man. I pitied him and told him A fate like that I'd rue. "But you can only guess the pain," Averred the Wandering Jew. At last the old chap nodded off, And such a change took place - The wrinkles all were smoothed away Upon that sleeping face. His hair that had been grey and thin Now thick and lustrous grew, And as I watched, I'd swear he looked No more than twenty-two. I pitied him? Not I, my friend, For here's my point of view - I'd love to wake up young again, Just like the Wandering Jew!
The end