The Bride of the Broken Lance
Christoph Bartels' arranged betrothal
In Zululand’s clutch he made his stand, Near Kranskop’s crags and Tugela’s gentle flow; A lone missionary in that wild land, Where the seeds of faith in quiet furrows grow.
Isolated ‘mid the Zulu hills he dwelt, In prayer and preaching, fervent, undismayed; Of earthly love his chances all but knelt No gentle hand to soothe the price he’d paid.
His brethren far in Hanover perceived The solitude that weighed upon his soul; They sought a maiden, virtuous and believed, And offered him young Augusta’s hand to hold.
She, pure of heart, prepared the daunting quest, To journey halfway round the world’s wide span; On nothing more than honour’s sure bequest, The word that he was an honourable man.
“Love follows honour,” so the elders taught, And honour in his letters brightly shone; With quiet courage, fearing not the fraught, She sailed across the seas to claim her own.
At Port Natal’s sunlit, teeming docks she stepped, Her eyes in anxious wonder searched the crowd; Christoph stood waiting, heart in silence kept, Till gaze met gaze beneath the southern cloud.
In that first instant, swift and mutual fire, Attraction bloomed as dawn dispels the night; Her steady glance fulfilled his deep desire, And Charlotte’s lingering pain took sudden flight.
As man and woman, side by side they trod The mission paths in Zululand’s embrace; Raising their children beneath the hand of God, She aided every duty, every grace.
For forty years their union stood as one, Through seasons harsh and mercies gently sent; In godly work beneath the African sun, Their hearts in faithful service were content.
Then, hand in hand, they slipped from mortal sight— But months apart they answered the final call; The broken lance at last lay bathed in light, In honour’s love that conquers all.
Thus in God’s harbour, deep and ever sure, The penitent found joy forevermore; With Augusta his anchor, strong and pure, Redemption’s voyage reached its golden shore.
~Roald Bartholomew