To bend again in grateful awe—
For will is power at length—
In homage to the living Law
Who gives her back her strength.
Uplifter of the down-bent head!
Unbinder of the bound!
Who seest all the burdened
Who only see the ground!
Although they see thee not, nor cry,
Thou watchest for the hour
To lift the forward-beaming eye,
To wake the slumbering power!
Thy hand will wipe the stains of time
From off the withered face;
Upraise thy bowed old men, in prime
Of youthful manhood’s grace!
Like summer days from winter’s tomb,
Shall rise thy women fair;
Gray Death, a shadow, not a doom,
Lo, is not anywhere!
All ills of life shall melt away
As melts a cureless woe,
When, by the dawning of the day
Surprised, the dream must go.
I think thou, Lord, wilt heal me too,
Whate’er the needful cure;
The great best only thou wilt do,
And hoping I endure.
VII
The Woman Who Came Behind Him in the Crowd
Near him she stole, rank after rank;
She feared approach too loud;
She touched his garment’s hem, and shrank
Back in the sheltering crowd.
A shame-faced gladness thrills her frame:
Her twelve years’ fainting prayer
Is heard at last! she is the same
As other women there!
She hears his voice. He looks about.
Ah! is it kind or good
To drag her secret sorrow out
Before that multitude?
The eyes of men she dares not meet—
On her they straight must fall!—
Forward she sped, and at his feet
Fell down, and told him all.
To the one refuge she hath flown,
The Godhead’s burning flame!
Of all earth’s women she alone
Hears there the tenderest name:
“Daughter,” he said, “be of good cheer;
Thy faith hath made thee whole:”
With plenteous love, not healing mere,
He comforteth her soul.
VIII
The Widow with the Two Mites
Here much and little shift and change,
With scale of need and time;
There more and less have meanings strange,
Which the world cannot rime.
Sickness may be more hale than health,
And service kingdom high;
Yea, poverty be bounty’s wealth,
To give like God thereby.
Bring forth your riches; let them go,
Nor mourn the lost control;
For if ye hoard them, surely so
Their rust will reach your soul.
Cast in your coins, for God delights
When from wide hands they fall;
But here is one who brings two mites,
And thus gives more than all.
I think she did not hear the praise—
Went home content with need;
Walked in her old poor generous ways,
Nor knew her heavenly meed.
IX
The Women Who Ministered Unto Him
Enough he labours for his hire;
Yea, nought can pay his pain;
But powers that wear and waste and tire,
Need help to toil again.
They give him freely all they can,
They give him clothes and food;
In this rejoicing, that the man
Is not ashamed they should.
High love takes form in lowly thing;
He knows the offering such;
To them ’tis little that they bring,
To him ’tis very much.
X
Pilate’s Wife
Why came in dreams the low-born man
Between thee and thy rest?
In vain thy whispered message ran,
Though justice was its quest!
Did some young ignorant angel dare—
Not knowing what must be,
Or blind with agony of care—
To fly for help to thee?
I know not. Rather I believe,
Thou, nobler than thy spouse,
His rumoured grandeur didst receive,
And sit with pondering brows,
Until thy maidens’ gathered tale
With possible marvel teems:
Thou sleepest, and the prisoner pale
Returneth in thy dreams.
Well mightst thou suffer things not few
For his sake all the night!
In pale eclipse he suffers, who
Is of the world the light.
Precious it were to know thy dream
Of such a one as he!
Perhaps of him we, waking, deem
As poor a verity.
XI
The Woman of Samaria
In the hot sun, for water cool
She walked in listless mood:
When back she ran, her pitcher full
Forgot behind her stood.
Like one who followed straying sheep,
A weary man she saw,
Who sat upon the well so deep,
And nothing had to draw.
“Give me to drink,” he said. Her hand
Was ready with reply;
From out the old well of the land
She drew him plenteously.
He spake as never man before;
She stands with open ears;
He spake of holy days in store,
Laid bare the vanished years.
She cannot still her throbbing heart,
She hurries to the town,
And cries aloud in street and mart,
“The Lord is here: come down.”
Her life before was strange and sad,
A very dreary sound:
Ah, let it go—or good or bad:
She has the Master found!
XII
Mary Magdalene
With wandering eyes and aimless zeal,
She hither, thither, goes;
Her speech, her motions, all reveal
A mind without repose.
She climbs the hills, she haunts the sea,
By madness tortured, driven;
One hour’s forgetfulness would be
A gift from very heaven!
She slumbers into new distress;
The night is worse than day:
Exulting in her helplessness,
Hell’s dogs yet louder bay.
The demons blast her to and fro;
She has no quiet place,
Enough a woman still, to know
A haunting dim disgrace.
A human touch! a pang of death!
And in a low delight
Thou liest, waiting for new breath.
For morning out of night.
Thou risest up: the earth is fair,
The wind is cool; thou art free!
Is it a dream of hell’s despair
Dissolves in ecstasy?
That man did touch thee! Eyes divine
Make sunrise in thy soul;
Thou seëst love in order shine:—
His health hath made thee whole!
Thou, sharing in the awful doom,
Didst help thy Lord to die;
Then, weeping o’er his empty tomb,
Didst hear him Mary cry.
He stands in haste; he cannot stop;
Home to his God he fares:
“Go tell my brothers I go up
To my Father, mine and theirs.”
Run, Mary! lift thy heavenly voice;
Cry, cry, and heed not how;
Make all the new-risen world rejoice—
Its first apostle thou!
What if old tales of thee have lied,
Or truth have told, thou art
All-safe with him, whate’er betide—
Dwell’st with him in God’s heart!
XIII
The Woman in the Temple
A still dark joy! A sudden face!
Cold daylight, footsteps,
