Songs Old and New :: :: University of Virginia Library

What hope lit up those sisters' gloom,
When first they sent His help to crave,
So sure that, hearing, He would come,
And, coming, could not fail to save!

Counting the distance o'er again,
Deeming Him near and yet more near;
Till hope, on heights she climbed in vain,
Lay frozen to a death-like fear:

Watching with twofold strain intent
The expected steps, the failing breath,
Till hope and fear, together spent,
Sank in the common blank of death.

“Beyond this burning waste of hills,
Beyond that awful glittering sea,
Mid those blue mountains lingering still,
Have our faint prayers not reached to Thee?

“Or are the joys and griefs of earth
To Thee, whose eyes survey the whole,
But passing things of little worth,
That should not deeply stir the soul?”

His tears ere long shall hush that fear
For every mourning heart for ever;
And we, who now His words can hear
Beyond the hills, beyond the river,

Know that as true a watch He kept
On those far heights, as at their side,
Feeling the tears the sisters wept,
Marking the hour the brother died.

No faintest sigh His heart can miss;
E'en now His feet are on the way,
With richest counter-weight of bliss
Heaped up for every hour's delay;

That nevermore should hope deferred
Make sick the heart which trusts in Him.
But, nourished by His faithful Word,
Grow brighter still as sight grows dim.

II.

“She hath done what she could. Verily I say unto you, Wheresoever this gospel shall be preached throughout the whole world, this also that she hath done shall be spoken of for a memorial of her.”

Mary, the only glory sweet
To any Christian's heart is thine!
Hidden beside the Master's feet,
Lost in that dearer light to shine;

Whilst evermore the heart obeys
The sermon of thy listening looks,
Learning religion from thy gaze
Better than from a thousand books.

Thy silence is His sweetest psalm,
While from His lips thy name distils,
And, dropping like thy precious balm,
Ever His house with fragrance fills.

III.

“Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things, but one thing is needful; and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her.”

What joy to live beneath the eyes
Which looked the spirit “through and through,”
Which penetrated each disguise,
And would not let us be untrue;

Yet through the thickest veil descried
The little spring of good below,
And pierced the icy crust of pride,
That happy, humble tears might flow;

Rending each soft disguise, which spares
The evil thing by gentle name,—
For sinners founts of pitying tears,
But for the sin unquenchëd flame;

That saw the very spot within
On which to lay the healing touch;
That had no pity for the sin,
Because for those who sinned so much;

That marked through Peter's boast his dread,
Yet, by his curses unperplexed,
Looked through them to the light, and read
The traces of the earlier text;

Beneath the black, “I know Him not,”
“Thou know'st I love Thee” still could trace,
In graven characters inwrought,
No darkest stains could quite efface;

That knew, through all vibrations fixed,
The true direction of the will,—
Saw self with Martha's service mixed,
And love in Mary's sitting still.

Those eyes still watch us, not from far,
Still pitying “look us through and through,”
And through the broken sketch we are,
Foresee the heavenly likeness true;

Through all its soft and silken dress
The creature of the dust descry,
Yet 'neath the shapeless chrysalis
The Psyche moulding for the sky.