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

Songs Old and New

... Collected Edition [by Elizabeth Charles]

Charles, Elizabeth Rundle (1828-1896)

[section]

L'Envoi.

The Women of the Gospels.

MINISTRY.

MARY THE MOTHER OF OUR LORD.

THE SISTERS OF BETHANY.

THE UNNAMED WOMEN.

THE TWO ALABASTER BOXES.

Songs of Many Seasons.

In Memoriam et Spem Aeternam.

Hymns.

The Three Wakings, And Other Early Songs.

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The Women of the Gospels.

MINISTRY.

“The Son of man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister.”

Since service is the highest lot,
And all are in one Body bound,
In all the world the place is not
Which may not with this bliss be crowned.

The sufferer on the bed of pain
Need not be laid aside from this,
But for each kindness gives again
“The joy of doing kindnesses.”

The poorest may enrich this feast;
Not one lives only to receive,
But renders through the hands of Christ
Richer returns than man can give.

The little child in trustful glee,
With love and gladness brimming o'er,

Many a cup of ministry
May for the weary veteran pour.

The lonely glory of a throne
May yet this lowly joy preserve;
Love may make that a stepping-stone,
And raise “I reign” into “I serve.”

This, by the ministries of prayer,
The loneliest life with blessings crowds,
Can consecrate each petty care,
Make angels'ladders out of clouds.

Nor serve we only when we gird
Our hearts for special ministry;
That creature best has ministered
Which is what it was meant to be.

Birds by being glad their Maker bless,
By simply shining sun and star;
And we, whose law is love, serve less
By what we do than what we are.

Since service is the highest lot,
And angels know no higher bliss,
Then with what good her cup is fraught
Who was created but for this!

MARY THE MOTHER OF OUR LORD.

I.

“All generations shall call me blessed.”

Age after age has called thee bless'd,
Yet none have fathomed all thy bliss;
Mothers, who read the secret best,
Or angels,—yet its depths must miss.

To dwell at home with Him for years,
And prove His filial love thine own;
In all a mother's tender cares
To serve thy Saviour in thy Son!

To see before thee day by day
That perfect life expand and shine,
And learn by sight, as angels may,
All that is holy and Divine!

Well may we heap thy blessing up
From age to age, from land to land,

Since Christ Himself that brimming cup
Gives to the lowliest Christian's hand,

The measure of a blessedness
Yet by that measure unexpress'd;
Sealing the mother's joy with “Yes,”
The Christian's, with His “rather bless'd.”

II. —THE MARRIAGE AT CANA.

“Yea, rather, blessed are they who hear the word of God, and keep it.”

Not for thyself thy motherhood,
Not for thy home that life-stream springs;
For thee then, too, the higher good
Must come through death of lower things.

The village home so sweet to thee
With joys so hallowed and complete,
For Him no Father's House could be,
No limit for thy Saviour's feet.

The will long meekly bowed to thine
Now calmly claims its sovereign place,
And takes a range of love Divine
Thy mortal vision cannot trace.

On us that mild reproof falls cold,—
The words, and not the tone, we hear;
On thee, who knewest Him of old,
It casts no shade of doubt or fear.

For thy meek heart has read Him true,
And, bowing, wins His “rather bless'd;”
“Whate'er He saith unto you, do,”
Embracing as its rule and rest.

Then through earth's ruins heaven shines bright:
The widest sphere, the dearest home,
Save that where Christ is Lord and Light,
Were but at last the spirit's tomb.

Thus, laying down thy special bliss,
Thou winnest joy, all joy above,—
The endless joy of being His,
And sharing in His works of love.

III. —THE MARRIAGE AT CANA.

The Hand that strews the earth with flowers
Enriched the marriage feast with wine;
The Hand once pierced for sins of ours
This morning made the dew-drops shine;

Makes rain-clouds palaces of art,
Makes ice-drops beauteous as they freeze;
The Heart that bled to save,—that Heart
Sends countless gifts each day to please;

Spares no minute refining touch
To paint the flower, to crown the feast;—
Deeming no sacrifice too much,
Has care and leisure for the least;

Gives freely of its very best,
Not barely what the need may be,
But for the joy of making blest.—
Teach us to love and give like Thee!

Not narrowly men's claims to measure,
But question daily all our powers:
To whose cup can we add a pleasure?
Whose path can we make bright with flowers?

IV. —THE CROSS.

“Now there stood by the cross of Jesus His mother.”

The strongest light casts deepest shade,
The dearest love makes dreariest loss;

And she His birth so blest had made
Stood by Him dying on the cross.

Yet, since not grief but joy shall last,
The day and not the night abide,
And all time's shadows, earthward cast,
Are lights upon the “other side;”

Through what long bliss that shall not fail,
That darkest hour shall brighten on!
Better than any angel's “Hail!”
The memory of “Behold thy Son!”

Blest in thy lowly heart to store
The homage paid at Bethlehem,
But far more blessëd evermore
Thus to have shared the taunts and shame;

Thus with thy pierced heart to have stood
'Mid mocking crowds, and owned Him thine;
True through a world's ingratitude,
And owned in death by lips Divine.

V. —THE CROWN.

Thou shalt be crowned, O mother blest!
Our hearts behold thee crowned e'en now;
The crown of motherhood, earth's best,
O'ershadowing thy maiden brow.

Thou shalt be crowned! More fragrant bays
Than ever poet's brows entwine,
For thine immortal hymn of praise,
First Singer of the Church, are thine.

Thou shalt be crowned! All earth and heaven
Thy coronation pomp shall see;
The Hand by which thy crown is given
Shall be no stranger's hand to thee.

Thou shalt be crowned! But not a queen;
A better triumph ends thy strife:
Heaven's bridal raiment, white and clean,
The victor's crown of fadeless life.

Thou shalt be crowned! But not alone,
No lonely pomp shall weigh thee down;
Crowned with the myriads round His throne,
And casting at His feet thy crown.

MARY MAGDALENE.

I.

Her home lay by that inland sea
Which sacred memories so embalm;
That Magdala and Galilee
Ring like the music of a psalm.

Deep in the lake the far hills glow,
Clear shines each peak and golden spire,
And Hermon lifts his brow of snow
Unsullied to that sky of fire.

From point to point gleamed cities white,
Full of the joyous stir of life,
And o'er the waves boats bounded light;
All was with eager movement rife.

Fresh streams across Gennesaret danced,
Laughing with corn and countless fruits,

And met the quiet waves which glanced
Bathing the oleander roots.

Yet many a calm recess for prayer
Those hills enshrined which circling stood,
Wild steeps which to men's homes brought near
The sanctity of solitude.

But vainly, round her and beneath
Earth poured her wealth, as evermore
Flows Jordan to the Sea of Death,
And leaves it bitter as before.

II.

“Out of whom He cast seven devils.”

No phantoms thus her soul assailed,
It was no vision of the night,
No dim unreal mist, that veiled
The glad reality of light;

No discord of sweet strings unstrung
A skilful touch might tune again,
No jar of nerves too tightly wrung,
No shadows of an o'erwrought brain;

But din of mocking voices rude,
Spirits whose touches left a stain,
Owning no shrine of solitude
Their blasphemies might not profane:

Real as the earth she, hopeless, trod,
Real as the heaven they had lost,
Real as the soul they kept from God,
From torture still to torture tossed.

Thus sleep to her could bring no calm,
No stillness dwelt for her in night;
And human love could yield no balm,
And home no deep and pure delight;

Till light upon that chaos broke,—
Not from unconscious azure skies,—
The morning that her spirit woke
Beamed from the depths of human eyes.

No thunder, with God's vengeance dread,
Scattered that company of hell;
It was a Voice from which they fled,
A Voice they knew before they fell.

Once more she was alone and free,
And silence all her soul possessed;

As the “great calm” the storm-tossed sea
When the same voice commanded rest.

Such solitude a heaven might make,
Such silence had for bliss sufficed;
What was it, then, from hell to wake,
And wake beneath the smile of Christ!

III.

“And certain women, which had been healed of evil spirits and infirmities, Mary, called Magdalene, . . . . which ministered unto Him of their substance.”

He suffered her with Him to stay,—
This crowning joy was not denied,—
To hear His voice from day to day,
And tread this earth still by His side:

Where, with a diadem of snow,
The white-walled cities crowned the rocks,
Or peasants' dwellings far below,
Couched round the fountains like their flocks.

She saw the expressive glance of sight
The dulness of blind eyes replace;
When learning first the joy of light,
For the first sight they saw His face.

She heard the first clear accents pour
From dumb lips, uttering His name;
She saw men's homes from shore to shore
Break into sunshine where He came.

She saw the long possessed set free,
(She knew the anguish and the bliss!)
She saw the baffled Pharisee,
And felt, “Man never spake like this.”

She heard reluctant fiends confess
The Godhead they had fain denied;
She saw the little children press
With fearless fondness to His side.

She saw the speechless joy that day
Light up the widow's face at Nain;
She never saw one sent away,
She never heard one plead in vain.

She saw Him faint and wearied sore,
And toil those gracious eyes bedim,
Thirsting and hungered, homeless, poor,—
She saw and ministered to Him.

She saw His brow its light regain,
And strength reknit each wearied limb,

All to be spent for man again;—
A woman's service succoured Him!

And are those days for ever o'er?
Must earth be of that joy bereft?—
The sights and sounds are here no more,
And yet the very best is left.

Still may we follow in His way,
And tread this earth as by His side;
May see Him work from day to day,
As in His presence we abide:

See Him shed light on darkened eyes,
The bowed and fettered heart set free;
May succour, serve, and sacrifice,
And hear from heaven His “unto Me.”

IV. —DURABLE RICHES.

The meanest creature of His care
Finds some soft nest to greet it made,
The hunted beast has yet its lair;—
He had not where to lay His head.

And scarce a little child that dies
But has its treasured things to share;
Its little store of legacies
Love hoards thenceforth with sacred care.

He left no treasure to divide;
E'en the poor garments which He wore
Were shared by strangers ere He died,
For their own worth, and nothing more.

Yet when the first disciples trod
Vineyards and fields of other men,
Pilgrims beside the Son of God,
Had royal grants enriched them then?

Or when, on His ascension day,
They stood once more on Olivet,
And town and village 'neath them lay,
Gems in their vines and olives set,—

Nor vines or olives, house or lands,
They owned those hills or valleys o'er,
Yet, when Christ lifted up His hands
And bless'd them, were those Christians poor?

If of that world which is His own,
Where every knee to Him shall bow,

Some special acres each had won,
Had they been richer then, or now?

V.

“The first day of the week cometh Mary Magdalene early, when it was yet dark, unto the sepulchre.”

The Sabbath that could bring no rest,
The weary day at length had fled:
What Sabbath could again be blest
Since He who promised rest was dead?

The guilty world was hushed in gloom,
Night on its sleeping millions lay
Like the “great stone” upon His tomb—
What if it never rolled away!

But o'er her path there fell a shade
No darkness from her heart could hide:—
The tomb in which the Lord was laid
Was near the cross on which He died.

Beneath that cross she stood again:
The tortured form no more she saw;

His murderers were religious men,
Nor dropped one letter of the law;

His cry of agony might smite
Strange discord through their measured prayer;
And who, when death those lips made white,
Could silence the reproaches there?

Thus Earth among the spheres moved on,
And calmly kept her ordered course,
Bearing the cross of God the Son,
And in her heart His lifeless corpse:

Nor yet was blotted out of space,
Nor yet the brand of Cain doth bear;
Because, through His surpassing grace,
That cross pleads not “Avenge,” but “Spare.”

VI.

“They have taken away my Lord.”

“My Lord,” though dead, yet still “my Lord:”
Prophet through love's tenacity,
Powerless to hope, she yet adored,
And felt the truth she could not see.

If He who in Himself had shone
All that God is, all man may be,
Living the truth else guessed by none,
Through years of patient ministry;

He from Whom life and peace she drew,
Whom she had followed day by day,
And worshipped more, the more she knew,
Could fade to cold unconscious clay;

If that pure life of perfect love,
Extinguished, never more should beam,
What joy could endless days above
Bring ever more, not bringing Him?

What were those angel-forms to her,
Their radiant forms and raiment white,
If dead within a sepulchre
He lay, Himself the Life and Light?

Thus when the bridge of faith was rent,
Which could have firmly spanned the gulf,
Love prostrate o'er the chasm leant,
And bridged the dark abyss herself.

VII.

“Jesus saith unto her, Mary She turned herself and saith unto Him, Rabboni; which is to say, Master.”

A moment since, a sepulchre
Was all the world she cared to own,
An empty tomb, vain balms and myrrh,
Tears with no heart to shed them on.

And now the living Lord was there,
Immortal, glorious, yet the same;
The voice the fiends once fled in fear
Now spoke the old familiar name.

No language could that bliss have told,
She had no words the joy to greet;
She said but “Master!” as of old,
And rested silent at His feet.

Yet all heaven's choirs could scarcely twine
A music more profound and sweet
Than when, as from His heart to thine,
Thus “Mary!” and “Rabboni!” meet.

VIII.

“Go quickly and tell His disciples that He is risen.”

Tell all the world the Lord is risen—
The Easter message, ever new;
The grave is but a ruined prison,—
Invincible, the Life breaks through.

Earth cannot long ensepulchre
In her dark depths the tiniest seed;
When life begins to throb and stir,
The bands of death are weak indeed.

No clods its upward course deter,
Calmly it makes its path to-day;
One germ of life is mightier
Than a whole universe of clay.

Yet not one leaf-blade ever stirred,
Bursting earth's wintry dungeons dim,
But lived at His creative word,
Responsive to the life in Him.

Since, then, the life that He bestows
Thus triumphs over death and earth;

What power of earth or death can close
The Fountain whence all life has birth?

And, as the least up-springing grain
Breathes still the resurrection song,
That light the victory shall gain,
That death is weak, and life is strong;

So, with immortal vigour rife,
The lowliest life that faith has freed
Bears witness still that Christ is life,
And that the Life is risen indeed.

SALOME.

“She saith unto Him, Grant that these my two sons may sit, the one on Thy right hand, and the other on the left, in Thy kingdom. But Jesus answered and said, Ye know not what ye ask.”

She knew not what for them she sought,
At His right hand and left to sit;
How great the glory, passing thought,
How rough the path that led to it.

They knew not what of Him they asked,
But He their deeper sense distilled;
Gently the selfish wish unmasked,
But all the prayer of love fulfilled.

Pride sought to lift herself on high,
And heard but of the bitter cup;
Love would but to her Lord be nigh,
And won her measure full, heaped up:

With vision of His glory blest,
Stood on the mountain by His side,

Leaned at the supper on His breast,
Stood close beneath Him when He died.

One brother shared His cup of woe,
The second of His martyr-band;
One, by His glory smitten low,
Rose at the touch of His right hand.

Thus, when by earth's cross lights perplexed,
We crave the thing that should not be,
God, reading right our erring text,
Gives what we would ask, could we see.

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

Thy miracles are no state splendours,
Whose pomps Thy daily works excel;
The rock which breaks the stream, but renders
Its constant current audible;

The power which startles us in thunders
Works ever silently in light;
And mightier than these special wonders,
The wonders daily in our sight;

Rents in the veils Thy works that fold,
They let the inner light shine through;
The rent is new, the light is old,
Eternal, never ever new.

And therefore, when Thy touch arrests
The bearers of that bier at Nain,
Warm on unnumbered hearts it rests,
Though yet their dead live not again.

And Thy compassionate “Weep not!”
On this our tearful earth once heard,
For every age with comfort fraught,
Tells how Thy heart is ever stirred.

Nature repeats the tale each year,
She feels Thy touch through countless springs,
And, rising from her wintry bier,
Throws off her grave-clothes, lives and sings.

And when Thy touch through earth shall thrill,
This bier whereon our race is laid,
And, for the first time standing still,
The long procession of the dead

At Thy “Arise!” shall wake from clay,
Young, deathless, freed from every stain;
When Thy “Weep not!” shall wipe away
Tears that shall never come again;

When the strong chains of death are burst,
And lips long dumb begin to speak,
What name will each then utter first?—
What music shall that silence break?

THE SYROPHENICIAN.

“Great is thy faith.”

Content, she takes the lowest place.
He knows what strain her faith will bear;
Low in the valleys flows His grace,
He does but gently lead her there.

Then in the depths to her He comes,
And meets her nothing with His all.
Creation lives upon the crumbs
Which from that Master's table fall;

But thou, O faith, not thus art fed!
For thee the heavenly homes are built;
Thy portion is the children's bread,
And “Be it to thee as thou wilt.”

THE SISTERS OF BETHANY.

I.

“When He had heard, therefore, that he was sick, He abode two days still in the same place where He was.”

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.

THE UNNAMED WOMEN.

I.

The hand that might have drawn aside
The veil, which from unloving sight
Those shrinking forms avails to hide,
With tender care has wrapped it tight.

He would not have the sullied name
Once fondly spoken in a home,
A mark for strangers' righteous blame,
Branded through every age to come.

And thus we only speak of them
As those on whom His mercies meet,—
“She whom the Lord would not condemn,”
And “She who bathed with tears His feet.”

Trusted to no evangelist,
First heard where sins no more defile,

Read from the Book of Life of Christ,
And consecrated by His smile.

II.

“And stood at His feet behind Him weeping, and began to wash His feet with tears.”

She bathed His feet with many a tear,
Feet wearied then for us so oft;
She wiped them with her flowing hair,
Embalmed with reverent touches soft.

She knew not of the bitter way
Those sacred feet had yet to tread,
Nor how the nails would pierce one day
Where now her costly balms were shed.

She read the pity in His eyes,
To peace transmuting her despair;
She could not read what agonies
Must cloud the heaven she gazed on there.

He praised her love, her sacrifice,
But breathed not what His own must be,

Nor hinted what must be the price
Which made her pardon flow so free.

Then if her love and gifts were such,
Who little knew the depths of His;
If then indeed she “loved” Him “much,”
How, since she knows Him as He is?

III.

“He turned to the woman.”

“He turned to her.” All eyes beside,—
All other eyes of righteous men,—
Avoided hers with virtuous pride,
Nor could she meet their gaze again.

Nor could she deem their coldness wrong;
That virtue of the Pharisee,
Only in its negations strong,
Ceasing to freeze might cease to be.

And human virtues can but be
As tender flowers a touch may kill,
Scorched if winds breathe too fervently,
Nipped if they chance to blow too chill.

But His were of another sphere
That never stain nor change could know,
No earth-born flowers, however fair,
But the pure light which made them grow;

No ice pure only till it melt,
But streams most fresh in freest flow;
The living love, whose pureness dwelt
Not in its coldness but its glow.

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.

V.

“Thy sins are forgiven thee”

“Forgiveness may then yet be mine,
The sinless lips have said ‘Forgiven;’
Pardon is then a right Divine,
And love indeed the law of heaven.

“But can the sullied snow grow white?
What spell can seal the memory fast?

What has been ever must have been,
The Almighty cannot change the past.

“His eyes, though piercing as the light,
In pity may refuse to see;
But what can make my memory white?
What veil can hide myself from me?”

Oh! raise thy downcast eyes to His,
And read the blessed secret there;
The pardoning love from guilt that frees,
By loving thee shall make thee fair.

Love's deepest depth of saving woe
Has yet to be to thee revealed;
Blood from that tender heart must flow,
And thus thy bitter streams be healed.

Thy guilt and shame on Him must lie:
Then search the past thy guilt to see;
Instead, this sight shall meet thine eye,—
Thy Saviour on the cross for thee!

VI.

“Go in peace.”

He clothes thy soul in spotless dress,
In bridal raiment white and clean,
The spirit's bridal robe of peace,
Sign of the inward grace unseen.

The love that sweeps thy spirit o'er,
Effacing every stain of sin,
Flows through thy spirit evermore,
A well of heavenly life within.

Thus, hallowed names, forgotten long,
Familiar names which once were thine,
With all the old attraction strong,
Embrace thy soul from lips Divine.

Soft from a Father's house above
Floats down on thee the name of child,
From love beyond the mother's love
Which on thy guiltless childhood smiled.

And when the age its circuit ends,
And the great marriage-day is there,
And from the heavens a Bride descends,
Thou, clothed in white, the bliss shalt share.

THE TWO ALABASTER BOXES.

I.

“A woman in the city, which was a sinner, brought an alabaster box of ointment, and anointed His feet.”

“Being in Bethany, there came a woman, having an alabaster box of ointment of spikenard, very precious; and she brake the box, and poured it on His head.”

When Thou, in patient ministry,
Didst pass a stranger through Thy land,
Two costly gifts were offered Thee,
And each was from a woman's hand.

To Thee, who madest all things fair,
Twice fair and precious things they bring;—
Pure sculptured alabaster clear,
Perfumes for earth's anointed King.

Man's hasty lips would both reprove,—
One for the stain of too much sin,

One for the waste of too much love;
Yet both availed Thy smile to win.

The saint who listened at Thy feet,
The sinner sinners scorned to touch,
Adoring in Thy presence meet,
Both pardoned and both loving much.

Thus evermore to all they teach,
Man's highest style is “much forgiven;”
And that earth's lowest yet may reach
The highest ministries of heaven.

They teach that gifts of costliest price
From hearts sin beggared yet may pour;
And that love's costliest sacrifice
Is worth the love, and nothing more.

II.

Love is the true economist,
Her weights and measures pass in heaven;
What others lavish on the feast,
She to the Lord Himself hath given.

Love is the true economist,
She through all else to Him hath sped,
And unreproved His feet hath kissed,
And spent her ointments on His head.

Love is the true economist,
She breaks the box, and gives her all;
Yet not one precious drop is missed,
Since on His head and feet they fall.

In all her fervent zeal no haste,
She at His feet sits glad and calm;
In all her lavish gifts no waste,—
The broken vase but frees the balm.

Love is the truest providence,
Since beyond time her gold is good;
Stamped for man's mean “three hundred pence,”
With Christ's “She hath done what she could.”

Love is the best economist
In what she sows and what she reaps;
She lavishes her all on Christ,
And in His all her being steeps.

1858.