The temple’s naked, shining space,
Aglare with judging eyes!
All in abandoned guilty hair,
With terror-pallid lips,
To vulgar scorn her honour bare,
To lewd remarks and quips,
Her eyes she fixes on the ground
Her shrinking soul to hide,
Lest, at uncurtained windows found,
Its shame be clear descried.
All idle hang her listless hands,
They tingle with her shame;
She sees not who beside her stands,
She is so bowed with blame.
He stoops, he writes upon the ground,
Regards nor priests nor wife;
An awful silence spreads around,
And wakes an inward strife.
Then comes a voice that speaks for thee,
Pale woman, sore aghast:
“Let him who from this sin is free
At her the first stone cast!”
Ah then her heart grew slowly sad!
Her eyes bewildered rose;
She saw the one true friend she had,
Who loves her though he knows.
He stoops. In every charnel breast
Dead conscience rises slow:
They, dumb before that awful guest,
Turn, one by one, and go.
Up in her deathlike, ashy face
Rises the living red;
No greater wonder sure had place
When Lazarus left the dead!
She is alone with him whose fear
Made silence all around;
False pride, false shame, they come not near,
She has her saviour found!
Jesus hath spoken on her side,
Those cruel men withstood!
From him her shame she will not hide!
For him she will be good!
He rose; he saw the temple bare;
They two are left alone!
He said unto her, “Woman, where
Are thine accusers gone?”
“Hath none condemned thee?” “Master, no,”
She answers, trembling sore.
“Neither do I condemn thee. Go,
And sin not any more.”
She turned and went.—To hope and grieve?
Be what she had not been?
We are not told; but I believe
His kindness made her clean.
Our sins to thee us captive hale—
Ambitions, hatreds dire;
Cares, fears, and selfish loves that fail,
And sink us in the mire:
Our captive-cries with pardon meet;
Our passion cleanse with pain;
Lord, thou didst make these miry feet—
Oh, wash them clean again!
XIV
Martha
With joyful pride her heart is high:
Her humble house doth hold
The man her nation’s prophecy
Long ages hath foretold!
Poor, is he? Yes, and lowly born:
Her woman-soul is proud
To know and hail the coming morn
Before the eyeless crowd.
At her poor table will he eat?
He shall be served there
With honour and devotion meet
For any king that were!
’Tis all she can; she does her part,
Profuse in sacrifice;
Nor dreams that in her unknown heart
A better offering lies.
But many crosses she must bear;
Her plans are turned and bent;
Do what she can, things will not wear
The form of her intent.
With idle hands and drooping lid,
See Mary sit at rest!
Shameful it was her sister did
No service for their guest!
Dear Martha, one day Mary’s lot
Must rule thy hands and eyes;
Thou, all thy household cares forgot,
Must sit as idly wise!
But once more first she set her word
To bar her master’s ways,
Crying, “By this he stinketh, Lord,
He hath been dead four days!”
Her housewife-soul her brother dear
Would fetter where he lies!
Ah, did her buried best then hear,
And with the dead man rise?
XV
Mary
I
She sitteth at the Master’s feet
In motionless employ;
Her ears, her heart, her soul complete
Drinks in the tide of joy.
Ah! who but she the glory knows
Of life, pure, high, intense,
In whose eternal silence blows
The wind beyond the sense!
In her still ear, God’s perfect grace
Incarnate is in voice;
Her thoughts, the people of the place,
Receive it, and rejoice.
Her eyes, with heavenly reason bright,
Are on the ground cast low;
His words of spirit, life, and light—
They set them shining so.
But see! a face is at the door
Whose eyes are not at rest;
A voice breaks on divinest lore
With petulant request.
“Master,” it said, “dost thou not care
She lets me serve alone?
Tell her to come and take her share.”
But Mary’s eyes shine on.
She lifts them with a questioning glance,
Calmly to him who heard;
The merest sign, she’ll rise at once,
Nor wait the uttered word.
His “Martha, Martha!” with it bore
A sense of coming nay;
He told her that her trouble sore
Was needless any day.
And he would not have Mary chid
For want of needless care;
The needful thing was what she did,
At his feet sitting there.
Sure, joy awoke in her dear heart
Doing the thing it would,
When he, the holy, took her part,
And called her choice the good!
Oh needful thing, Oh Mary’s choice,
Go not from us away!
Oh Jesus, with the living voice,
Talk to us every day!
II
Not now the living words are poured
Into one listening ear;
For many guests are at the board,
And many speak and hear.
With sacred foot, refrained and slow,
With daring, trembling tread,
She comes, in worship bending low
Behind the godlike head.
The costly chrism, in snowy stone,
A gracious odour sends;
Her little hoard, by sparing grown,
In one full act she spends.
She breaks the box, the honoured thing!
See how its riches pour!
Her priestly hands anoint him king
Whom peasant Mary bore.
Not so does John the tale repeat:
He saw, for he was there,
Mary anoint the Master’s feet,
And wipe them with her hair.
Perhaps she did his head anoint,
And then his feet as well;
And John this one forgotten point
Loved best of all to tell.
’Twas Judas called the splendour waste,
’Twas Jesus said—Not so;
Said that her love his burial graced:
“Ye have the poor; I go.”
Her hands unwares outsped his fate,
The truth-king’s felon-doom;
The other women were too late,
For he had left the tomb.
XVI
The Woman That Was a Sinner
His face, his words, her heart awoke;
Awoke her slumbering truth;
She judged him well; her bonds she broke,
And fled to him for ruth.
With tears she washed his weary feet;
She wiped them with her hair;
Her kisses—call them not unmeet,
When they were welcome there.
What saint a richer crown could throw
At his love-royal feet!
Her tears, her lips, her hair, down go,
His reign begun to greet.
His holy manhood’s perfect worth
Owns her a woman still;
It
