The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald. George MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ In motionless employ;

       Her ears, her heart, her soul complete

       Drinks in the tide of joy.

      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, God'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 shining 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 shine 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 worship bending low

       Behind the godlike head.

      The costly chrism, in snowy stone,

       A gracious odour sends;

       Her little hoard, 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.

       Table of Contents

      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 СКАЧАТЬ