The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald - George MacDonald

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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.

       Table of Contents

      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.

       Table of Contents

      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.

      X.

       PILATE'S WIFE.

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      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.

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      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.

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      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,

      

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