The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 52

Ah! who but she the glory knows Of life, pure, high, intense, In whose eternal silence blows The wind beyond the sense!

In her still ear, G.o.d's perfect grace Incarnate is in voice; Her thoughts, the people of the place, Receive it, and rejoice.

Her eyes, with heavenly reason bright, Are on the ground cast low; His words of spirit, life, and light-- _They_ set them s.h.i.+ning so.

But see! a face is at the door Whose eyes are not at rest; A voice breaks on divinest lore With petulant request.

"Master," it said, "dost thou not care She lets me serve alone?

Tell her to come and take her share."

But Mary's eyes s.h.i.+ne on.

She lifts them with a questioning glance, Calmly to him who heard; The merest sign, she'll rise at once, Nor wait the uttered word.

His "Martha, Martha!" with it bore A sense of coming _nay_; He told her that her trouble sore Was needless any day.

And he would not have Mary chid For want of needless care; The needful thing was what she did, At his feet sitting there.

Sure, joy awoke in her dear heart Doing the thing it would, When he, the holy, took her part, And called her choice the good!

Oh needful thing, Oh Mary's choice, Go not from us away!

Oh Jesus, with the living voice, Talk to us every day!

II.

Not now the living words are poured Into one listening ear; For many guests are at the board, And many speak and hear.

With sacred foot, refrained and slow, With daring, trembling tread, She comes, in wors.h.i.+p bending low Behind the G.o.dlike head.

The costly chrism, in snowy stone, A gracious odour sends; Her little h.o.a.rd, by sparing grown, In one full act she spends.

She breaks the box, the honoured thing!

See how its riches pour!

Her priestly hands anoint him king Whom peasant Mary bore.

Not so does John the tale repeat: He saw, for he was there, Mary anoint the Master's feet, And wipe them with her hair.

Perhaps she did his head anoint, And then his feet as well; And John this one forgotten point Loved best of all to tell.

'Twas Judas called the splendour waste, 'Twas Jesus said--Not so; Said that her love his burial graced: "Ye have the poor; I go."

Her hands unwares outsped his fate, The truth-king's felon-doom; The other women were too late, For he had left the tomb.

XVI.

_THE WOMAN THAT WAS A SINNER_.

His face, his words, her heart awoke; Awoke her slumbering truth; She judged him well; her bonds she broke, And fled to him for ruth.

With tears she washed his weary feet; She wiped them with her hair; Her kisses--call them not unmeet, When they were welcome _there_.

What saint a richer crown could throw At his love-royal feet!

Her tears, her lips, her hair, down go, His reign begun to greet.

His holy manhood's perfect worth Owns her a woman still; It is impossible henceforth For her to stoop to ill.

Her to herself his words restore, The radiance to the day; A horror to herself no more, Not yet a cast-away!

Her hands and kisses, ointment, tears, Her gathered wiping hair, Her love, her shame, her hopes, her fears, Mingle in wors.h.i.+p rare.

Thou, Mary, too, thy hair didst spread To wipe the anointed feet; Nor didst thou only bless his head With precious spikenard sweet.

But none say thou thy tears didst pour To wash his parched feet first; Of tears thou couldst not have such store As from this woman burst!

If not in love she first be read, Her queen of sorrow greet; Mary, do thou anoint his head, And let her crown his feet.

Simon, her kisses will not soil; Her tears are pure as rain; The hair for him she did uncoil Had been baptized in pain.

Lo, G.o.d hath pardoned her so much, Love all her being stirs!

His love to his poor child is such That it hath wakened hers!

But oh, rejoice, ye sisters pure, Who scarce can know her case-- There is no sin but has its cure, Its all-consuming grace!

He did not leave her soul in h.e.l.l, 'Mong shards the silver dove; But raised her pure that she might tell Her sisters how to love!

She gave him all your best love can!

Despised, rejected, sad-- Sure, never yet had mighty man Such homage as he had!

Jesus, by whose forgiveness sweet, Her love grew so intense, Earth's sinners all come round thy feet: Lord, make no difference!

A BOOK OF SONNETS.

_THE BURNT-OFFERING_.

Thrice-happy he whose heart, each new-born night, When old-worn day hath vanished o'er earth's brim, And he hath laid him down in chamber dim, Straightway begins to tremble and grow bright, And loose faint flashes toward the vaulted height Of the great peace that overshadoweth him: Keen lambent flames of hope awake and swim Throughout his soul, touching each point with light!

The great earth under him an altar is, Upon whose top a sacrifice he lies, Burning in love's response up to the skies Whose fire descended first and kindled his: When slow the flickering flames at length expire, Sleep's ashes only hide a glowing fire.

_THE UNSEEN FACE_.