IV.
She hath washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her
head. . . . This woman, since the time I came in, hath not ceased to kiss my
feet. . . . Hath anointed my feet with ointment. . . . She loved much.”
He prized her love, He held it dear,
He felt each ministering touch,
He marked each gift she offered there,
He cared that she should love Him “much.”
His pity was no careless alms
The happy to the wretched fling;
He prized her love, her tears, her balms,
Then life was yet a precious thing;
Precious the love He held of price,
Precious each moment which might bring
Some privilege of sacrifice,
Some vase to break in offering.
And God gives evermore like this,
Gives by His measure, not by ours;
By life means not mere being, but bliss,
Free exercise of joyful powers.
The freedom with which He makes free
Is freedom of His home above;
Not merely liberty to be,
But liberty to serve and love.
