 | Poems |  |
132
MARY.
The box is not of stainless alabaster
Which o'er Thy feet I break;
Nor filled with costly ointment, gracious Master,
Poured for Thy sake.
Which o'er Thy feet I break;
Nor filled with costly ointment, gracious Master,
Poured for Thy sake.
Nay, rather is it shapen in this fashion—
A living heart.
Dashed all across with scarlet stains of passion,
And broke in part;
A living heart.
Dashed all across with scarlet stains of passion,
And broke in part;
While from its open wound comes softly dripping,
Like slow tears shed,
In heavy drops, along Thy footstool slipping,
Its life-blood red.
Like slow tears shed,
In heavy drops, along Thy footstool slipping,
Its life-blood red.
It needs no balm of myrrh for sweet or bitter,
But life and love:
These sad conditions make my offering fitter
Thy heart to move.
But life and love:
These sad conditions make my offering fitter
Thy heart to move.
From all these chains of cruel wrong and anguish,
This load of grief
Wherewith my soul doth pant, and mourn and languish,
Give me relief!
This load of grief
Wherewith my soul doth pant, and mourn and languish,
Give me relief!
133
In Thy far home is not Thy soul still tender
For mortal woe?
Hear'st Thou not still amid that spotless splendor
The seraphs know?
For mortal woe?
Hear'st Thou not still amid that spotless splendor
The seraphs know?
Oh turn Thy human eyes from heavenly glory!
Say as before
Those tenderest words of all Thy gospel story—
“Go, sin no more!”
Say as before
Those tenderest words of all Thy gospel story—
“Go, sin no more!”
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