Life's best things gather round its close To light it from the door; When woman's aid no further goes, She weeps and loves the more. She doubted oft, feared for his life, Yea, feared his mission's loss; But now she shares the losing strife, And weeps beside the cross. The dreaded hour is come at last, The sword hath reached her soul; The hour of tortured hope is past, And gained the awful goal. There hangs the son her body bore, The limbs her arms had prest! The hands, the feet the driven nails tore Had lain upon her breast! He speaks; the words how faintly brief, And how divinely dear! The mother's heart yearns through its grief Her dying son to hear. "Woman, behold thy son.—Behold Thy mother." Blessed hest That friend to her torn heart to fold Who understood him best! Another son—ah, not instead!— He gave, lest grief should kill, While he was down among the dead, Doing his father's will. No, not instead! the coming joy Will make him hers anew; More hers than when, a little boy, His life from hers he drew.

II.

THE WOMAN THAT LIFTED UP HER VOICE

Filled with his words of truth and right, Her heart will break or cry: A woman's cry bursts forth in might Of loving agony. "Blessed the womb, thee, Lord, that bare! The bosom that thee fed!" A moment's silence filled the air, All heard the words she said. He turns his face: he knows the cry, The fountain whence it springs— A woman's heart that glad would die For woman's best of things. Good thoughts, though laggard in the rear, He never quenched or chode: "Yea, rather, blessed they that hear And keep the word of God!" He would uplift her, not rebuke. The crowd began to stir. We miss how she the answer took; We hear no more of her.

III.

THE MOTHER OF ZEBEDEE'S CHILDREN

She knelt, she bore a bold request, Though shy to speak it out: Ambition, even in mother's breast, Before him stood in doubt. "What is it?" "Grant thy promise now, My sons on thy right hand And on thy left shall sit when thou Art king, Lord, in the land." "Ye know not what ye ask." There lay A baptism and a cup She understood not, in the way By which he must go up. Her mother-love would lift them high Above their fellow-men; Her woman-pride would, standing nigh, Share in their grandeur then! Would she have joyed o'er prosperous quest, Counted her prayer well heard, Had they, of three on Calvary's crest, Hung dying, first and third? She knoweth neither way nor end: In dark despair, full soon, She will not mock the gracious friend With prayer for any boon. Higher than love could dream or dare To ask, he them will set; They shall his cup and baptism share, And share his kingdom yet! They, entering at his palace-door, Will shun the lofty seat; Will gird themselves, and water pour, And wash each other's feet; Then down beside their lowly Lord On the Father's throne shall sit: For them who godlike help afford God hath prepared it.

IV.

THE SYROPHENICIAN WOMAN

"Grant, Lord, her prayer, and let her go; She crieth after us." Nay, to the dogs ye cast it so; Serve not a woman thus. Their pride, by condescension fed, He shapes with teaching tongue: "It is not meet the children's bread To little dogs be flung." The words, for tender heart so sore, His voice did seem to rue; The gentle wrath his countenance wore, With her had not to do. He makes her share the hurt of good, Takes what she would have lent, That those proud men their evil mood May see, and so repent; And that the hidden faith in her May burst in soaring flame: With childhood deeper, holier, Is birthright not the same? Ill names, of proud religion born— She'll wear the worst that comes; Will clothe her, patient, in their scorn, To share the healing crumbs! "Truth, Lord; and yet the puppies small Under the table eat The crumbs the little ones let fall— That is not thought unmeet." The prayer rebuff could not amate Was not like water spilt: "O woman, but thy faith is great! Be it even as thou wilt." Thrice happy she who yet will dare, Who, baffled, prayeth still! He, if he may, will grant her prayer In fulness of her will!

THE WIDOW OF NAIN

Forth from the city, with the load That makes the trampling low, They walk along the dreary road That dust and ashes go. The other way, toward the gate Their trampling strong and loud, With hope of liberty elate, Comes on another crowd. Nearer and nearer draw the twain— One with a wailing cry! How could the Life let such a train Of death and tears go by! "Weep not," he said, and touched the bier: They stand, the dead who bear; The mother knows nor hope nor fear— He waits not for her prayer. "Young man, I say to thee, arise." Who hears, he must obey: Up starts the body; wide the eyes Flash wonder and dismay. The lips would speak, as if they caught Some converse sudden broke When the great word the dead man sought, And Hades' silence woke. The lips would speak: the eyes' wild stare Gives place to ordered sight; The murmur dies upon the air; The soul is dumb with light. He brings no news; he has forgot, Or saw with vision weak: Thou sees! all our unseen lot, And yet thou dost not speak. Hold'st thou the news, as parent might A too good gift, away, Lest we should neither sleep at night, Nor do our work by day? The mother leaves us not a spark Of her triumph over grief; Her tears alone have left their mark Upon the holy leaf: Oft gratitude will thanks benumb, Joy will our laughter quell: May not Eternity be dumb With things too good to tell? Her straining arms her lost one hold; Question she asketh none; She trusts for all he leaves untold; Enough, to clasp her son! The ebb is checked, the flow begun, Sent rushing to the gate: Death turns him backward to the sun, And life is yet our fate!

VI.

THE WOMAN WHOM SATAN HAD BOUND

For years eighteen she, patient soul, Her eyes had graveward sent; Her earthly life was lapt in dole, She was so bowed and bent. What words! To her? Who can be near? What tenderness of hands! Oh! is it strength, or fancy mere? New hope, or breaking bands? The pent life rushes swift along Channels it used to know; Up, up, amid the wondering throng, She rises firm and slow— To bend again in grateful awe— For will is power at length— In homage to the living Law Who gives her back her strength. Uplifter of the down-bent head! Unbinder of the bound! Who seest all the burdened Who only see the ground! Although they see thee not, nor cry, Thou watchest for the hour To lift the forward-beaming eye, To wake the slumbering power! Thy hand will wipe the stains of time From off the withered face; Upraise thy bowed old men, in prime Of youthful manhood's grace! Like summer days from winter's tomb, Shall rise thy women fair; Gray Death, a shadow, not a doom, Lo, is not anywhere! All ills of life shall melt away As melts a cureless woe, When, by the dawning of the day Surprised, the dream must go. I think thou, Lord, wilt heal me too, Whate'er the needful cure; The great best only thou wilt do, And hoping I endure.

VII.

THE WOMAN WHO CAME BEHIND HIM IN THE CROWD

Near him she stole, rank after rank; She feared approach too loud; She touched his garment's hem, and shrank Back in the sheltering crowd. A shame-faced gladness thrills her frame: Her twelve years' fainting prayer Is heard at last! she is the same As other women there! She hears his voice. He looks about. Ah! is it kind or good To drag her secret sorrow out Before that multitude? The eyes of men she dares not meet— On her they straight must fall!— Forward she sped, and at his feet Fell down, and told him all. To the one refuge she hath flown, The Godhead's burning flame! Of all earth's women she alone Hears there the tenderest name: "Daughter," he said, "be of good cheer; Thy faith hath made thee whole:" With plenteous love, not healing mere, He comforteth her soul.

VIII.

THE WIDOW WITH THE TWO MITES

Here much and little shift and change, With scale of need and time; There more and less have meanings strange, Which the world cannot rime. Sickness may be more hale than health, And service kingdom high; Yea, poverty be bounty's wealth, To give like God thereby. Bring forth your riches; let them go, Nor mourn the lost control; For if ye hoard them, surely so Their rust will reach your soul. Cast in your coins, for God delights When from wide hands they fall; But here is one who brings two mites, And thus gives more than all. I think she did not hear the praise— Went home content with need; Walked in her old poor generous ways, Nor knew her heavenly meed.

IX.

THE WOMEN WHO MINISTERED UNTO HIM

Enough he labours for his hire; Yea, nought can pay his pain; But powers that wear and waste and tire, Need help to toil again. They give him freely all they can, They give him clothes and food; In this rejoicing, that the man Is not ashamed they should. High love takes form in lowly thing; He knows the offering such; To them 'tis little that they bring, To him 'tis very much.

PILATE'S WIFE

Why came in dreams the low-born man Between thee and thy rest? In vain thy whispered message ran, Though justice was its quest! Did some young ignorant angel dare— Not knowing what must be, Or blind with agony of care— To fly for help to thee? I know not. Rather I believe, Thou, nobler than thy spouse, His rumoured grandeur didst receive, And sit with pondering brows, Until thy maidens' gathered tale With possible marvel teems: Thou sleepest, and the prisoner pale Returneth in thy dreams. Well mightst thou suffer things not few For his sake all the night! In pale eclipse he suffers, who Is of the world the light. Precious it were to know thy dream Of such a one as he! Perhaps of him we, waking, deem As poor a verity.

XI.

THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA

In the hot sun, for water cool She walked in listless mood: When back she ran, her pitcher full Forgot behind her stood. Like one who followed straying sheep, A weary man she saw, Who sat upon the well so deep, And nothing had to draw. "Give me to drink," he said. Her hand Was ready with reply; From out the old well of the land She drew him plenteously. He spake as never man before; She stands with open ears; He spake of holy days in store, Laid bare the vanished years. She cannot still her throbbing heart, She hurries to the town, And cries aloud in street and mart, "The Lord is here: come down." Her life before was strange and sad, A very dreary sound: Ah, let it go—or good or bad: She has the Master found!

XII.

MARY MAGDALENE

With wandering eyes and aimless zeal, She hither, thither, goes; Her speech, her motions, all reveal A mind without repose. She climbs the hills, she haunts the sea, By madness tortured, driven; One hour's forgetfulness would be A gift from very heaven! She slumbers into new distress; The night is worse than day: Exulting in her helplessness, Hell's dogs yet louder bay. The demons blast her to and fro; She has no quiet place, Enough a woman still, to know A haunting dim disgrace. A human touch! a pang of death! And in a low delight Thou liest, waiting for new breath. For morning out of night. Thou risest up: the earth is fair, The wind is cool; thou art free! Is it a dream of hell's despair Dissolves in ecstasy? That man did touch thee! Eyes divine Make sunrise in thy soul; Thou seëst love in order shine:— His health hath made thee whole! Thou, sharing in the awful doom, Didst help thy Lord to die; Then, weeping o'er his empty tomb, Didst hear him Mary cry. He stands in haste; he cannot stop; Home to his God he fares: "Go tell my brothers I go up To my Father, mine and theirs." Run, Mary! lift thy heavenly voice; Cry, cry, and heed not how; Make all the new-risen world rejoice— Its first apostle thou! What if old tales of thee have lied, Or truth have told, thou art All-safe with him, whate'er betide— Dwell'st with him in God's heart!

XIII.

THE WOMAN IN THE TEMPLE

A still dark joy! A sudden face! Cold daylight, footsteps, cries! 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?

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