The hour of tortured hope is past,
And gained the awful goal.
There hangs the son her body bore,
The limbs her arms had prest!
The hands, the feet the driven nails tore
Had lain upon her breast!
He speaks; the words how faintly brief,
And how divinely dear!
The mother’s heart yearns through its grief
Her dying son to hear.
“Woman, behold thy son.—Behold
Thy mother.” Blessed hest
That friend to her torn heart to fold
Who understood him best!
Another son—ah, not instead!—
He gave, lest grief should kill,
While he was down among the dead,
Doing his father’s will.
No, not instead! the coming joy
Will make him hers anew;
More hers than when, a little boy,
His life from hers he drew.
II
The Woman That Lifted Up Her Voice
Filled with his words of truth and right,
Her heart will break or cry:
A woman’s cry bursts forth in might
Of loving agony.
“Blessed the womb, thee, Lord, that bare!
The bosom that thee fed!”
A moment’s silence filled the air,
All heard the words she said.
He turns his face: he knows the cry,
The fountain whence it springs—
A woman’s heart that glad would die
For woman’s best of things.
Good thoughts, though laggard in the rear,
He never quenched or chode:
“Yea, rather, blessed they that hear
And keep the word of God!”
He would uplift her, not rebuke.
The crowd began to stir.
We miss how she the answer took;
We hear no more of her.
III
The Mother of Zebedee’s Children
She knelt, she bore a bold request,
Though shy to speak it out:
Ambition, even in mother’s breast,
Before him stood in doubt.
“What is it?” “Grant thy promise now,
My sons on thy right hand
And on thy left shall sit when thou
Art king, Lord, in the land.”
“Ye know not what ye ask.” There lay
A baptism and a cup
She understood not, in the way
By which he must go up.
Her mother-love would lift them high
Above their fellow-men;
Her woman-pride would, standing nigh,
Share in their grandeur then!
Would she have joyed o’er prosperous quest,
Counted her prayer well heard,
Had they, of three on Calvary’s crest,
Hung dying, first and third?
She knoweth neither way nor end:
In dark despair, full soon,
She will not mock the gracious friend
With prayer for any boon.
Higher than love could dream or dare
To ask, he them will set;
They shall his cup and baptism share,
And share his kingdom yet!
They, entering at his palace-door,
Will shun the lofty seat;
Will gird themselves, and water pour,
And wash each other’s feet;
Then down beside their lowly Lord
On the Father’s throne shall sit:
For them who godlike help afford
God hath prepared it.
IV
The Syrophenician Woman
“Grant, Lord, her prayer, and let her go;
She crieth after us.”
Nay, to the dogs ye cast it so;
Serve not a woman thus.
Their pride, by condescension fed,
He shapes with teaching tongue:
“It is not meet the children’s bread
To little dogs be flung.”
The words, for tender heart so sore,
His voice did seem to rue;
The gentle wrath his countenance wore,
With her had not to do.
He makes her share the hurt of good,
Takes what she would have lent,
That those proud men their evil mood
May see, and so repent;
And that the hidden faith in her
May burst in soaring flame:
With childhood deeper, holier,
Is birthright not the same?
Ill names, of proud religion born—
She’ll wear the worst that comes;
Will clothe her, patient, in their scorn,
To share the healing crumbs!
“Truth, Lord; and yet the puppies small
Under the table eat
The crumbs the little ones let fall—
That is not thought unmeet.”
The prayer rebuff could not amate
Was not like water spilt:
“O woman, but thy faith is great!
Be it even as thou wilt.”
Thrice happy she who yet will dare,
Who, baffled, prayeth still!
He, if he may, will grant her prayer
In fullness of her will!
V
The Widow of Nain
Forth from the city, with the load
That makes the trampling low,
They walk along the dreary road
That dust and ashes go.
The other way, toward the gate
Their trampling strong and loud,
With hope of liberty elate,
Comes on another crowd.
Nearer and nearer draw the twain—
One with a wailing cry!
How could the Life let such a train
Of death and tears go by!
“Weep not,” he said, and touched the bier:
They stand, the dead who bear;
The mother knows nor hope nor fear—
He waits not for her prayer.
“Young man, I say to thee, arise.”
Who hears, he must obey:
Up starts the body; wide the eyes
Flash wonder and dismay.
The lips would speak, as if they caught
Some converse sudden broke
When the great word the dead man sought,
And Hades’ silence woke.
The lips would speak: the eyes’ wild stare
Gives place to ordered sight;
The murmur dies upon the air;
The soul is dumb with light.
He brings no news; he has forgot,
Or saw with vision weak:
Thou sees! all our unseen lot,
And yet thou dost not speak.
Hold’st thou the news, as parent might
A too good gift, away,
Lest we should neither sleep at night,
Nor do our work by day?
The mother leaves us not a spark
Of her triumph over grief;
Her tears alone have left their mark
Upon the holy leaf:
Oft gratitude will thanks benumb,
Joy will our laughter quell:
May not Eternity be dumb
With things too good to tell?
Her straining arms her lost one hold;
Question she asketh none;
She trusts for all he leaves untold;
Enough, to clasp her son!
The ebb is checked, the flow begun,
Sent rushing to the gate:
Death turns him backward to the sun,
And life is yet our fate!
VI
The Woman Whom Satan Had Bound
For years eighteen she, patient soul,
Her eyes had graveward sent;
Her earthly life was lapt in dole,
She was so bowed and bent.
What words! To her? Who can be near?
What tenderness of hands!
Oh! is it strength, or fancy mere?
New hope, or breaking bands?
The pent life rushes swift along
Channels it used to know;
Up, up, amid the wondering throng,
She
