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thy own choice

       Doing his Father's will.

      Ambition for thy son restrain,

       Thy will to God's will bow:

       Thy son he shall be yet again.

       And twice his mother thou.

      O humble man, O faithful son!

       That woman most forlorn

       Who yet thy father's will hath done,

       Thee, son of man, hath born!

      V.

      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.

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      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.

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      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.

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      "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

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