The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 47

x.x.xII.

Years have pa.s.sed o'er my broken plan To picture out a strife, Where ancient Death, in horror wan, Faced young and fearing Life.

More of the tale I tell not so-- But for myself would say: My heart is quiet with what I know, With what I hope, is gay.

And where I cannot set my faith, Unknowing or unwise, I say "If this be what _he_ saith, Here hidden treasure lies."

Through years gone by since thus I strove, Thus shadowed out my strife, While at my history I wove, Thou wovest in the life.

Through poverty that had no lack For friends divinely good; Through pain that not too long did rack, Through love that understood;

Through light that taught me what to hold And what to cast away; Through thy forgiveness manifold, And things I cannot say,

Here thou hast brought me--able now To kiss thy garment's hem, Entirely to thy will to bow, And trust thee even for them

Who in the darkness and the mire Walk with rebellious feet, Loose trailing, Lo, their soiled attire For heavenly floor unmeet!

Lord Jesus Christ, I know not how-- With this blue air, blue sea, This yellow sand, that gra.s.sy brow, All isolating me--

Thy thoughts to mine themselves impart, My thoughts to thine draw near; But thou canst fill who mad'st my heart, Who gav'st me words must hear.

Thou mad'st the hand with which I write, The eye that watches slow Through rosy gates that rosy light Across thy threshold go;

Those waves that bend in golden spray, As if thy foot they bore: I think I know thee, Lord, to-day, Shall know thee evermore.

I know thy father thine and mine: Thou the great fact hast bared: Master, the mighty words are thine-- Such I had never dared!

Lord, thou hast much to make me yet-- Thy father's infant still: Thy mind, Son, in my bosom set, That I may grow thy will.

My soul with truth clothe all about, And I shall question free: The man that feareth, Lord, to doubt, In that fear doubteth thee.

THE GOSPEL WOMEN.

I.

_THE MOTHER MARY_.

I.

Mary, to thee the heart was given For infant hand to hold, And clasp thus, an eternal heaven, The great earth in its fold.

He seized the world with tender might By making thee his own; Thee, lowly queen, whose heavenly height Was to thyself unknown.

He came, all helpless, to thy power, For warmth, and love, and birth; In thy embraces, every hour, He grew into the earth.

Thine was the grief, O mother high, Which all thy sisters share Who keep the gate betwixt the sky And this our lower air;

But unshared sorrows, gathering slow, Will rise within thy heart, Strange thoughts which like a sword will go Thorough thy inward part.

For, if a woman bore a son That was of angel brood, Who lifted wings ere day was done, And soared from where she stood,

Wild grief would rave on love's high throne; She, sitting in the door, All day would cry: "He was my own, And now is mine no more!"

So thou, O Mary, years on years, From child-birth to the cross, Wast filled with yearnings, filled with fears, Keen sense of love and loss.

His childish thoughts outsoared thy reach; His G.o.dlike tenderness Would sometimes seem, in human speech, To thee than human less.

Strange pangs await thee, mother mild, A sorer travail-pain; Then will the spirit of thy child Be born in thee again.

Till then thou wilt forebode and dread; Loss will be still thy fear-- Till he be gone, and, in his stead, His very self appear.

For, when thy son hath reached his goal, And vanished from the earth, Soon wilt thou find him in thy soul, A second, holier birth.

II.

Ah, there he stands! With wondering face Old men surround the boy; The solemn looks, the awful place Bestill the mother's joy.

In sweet reproach her gladness hid, Her trembling voice says--low, Less like the chiding than the chid-- "How couldst thou leave us so?"

But will her dear heart understand The answer that he gives-- Childlike, eternal, simple, grand, The law by which he lives?

"Why sought ye me?" Ah, mother dear, The gulf already opes That will in thee keep live the fear, And part thee from thy hopes!

"My father's business--that ye know I cannot choose but do."

Mother, if he that work forego, Not long he cares for you.

Creation's harder, better part Now occupies his hand: I marvel not the mother's heart Not yet could understand.

III.

The Lord of life among them rests; They quaff the merry wine; They do not know, those wedding guests, The present power divine.

Believe, on such a group he smiled, Though he might sigh the while; Believe not, sweet-souled Mary's child Was born without a smile.

He saw the pitchers, high upturned, Their last red drops outpour; His mother's cheek with triumph burned, And expectation wore.

He knew the prayer her bosom housed, He read it in her eyes; Her hopes in him sad thoughts have roused Ere yet her words arise.

"They have no wine!" she, halting, said, Her prayer but half begun; Her eyes went on, "Lift up thy head, Show what thou art, my son!"