The Complete Poetical Works of George MacDonald - George MacDonald

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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, God 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 hell,

       '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.

       Table of Contents

      THE BURNT-OFFERING.

       Table of Contents

      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.

       Table of Contents

      "I do beseech thee, God, show me thy face."

       "Come up to me in Sinai on the morn!

       Thou shall behold as much as may be borne."

       And on a rock stood Moses, lone in space.

       From Sinai's top, the vaporous, thunderous place,

       God passed in cloud, an earthy garment worn

       To hide, and thus reveal. In love, not scorn,

       He put him in a clift of the rock's base,

       Covered him with his hand, his eyes to screen—

       Passed—lifted it: his back alone appears!

       Ah, Moses, had he turned, and hadst thou seen

       The pale face crowned with thorns, baptized with tears,

       The eyes of the true man, by men belied,

       Thou hadst beheld God's face, and straightway died!

      CONCERNING JESUS.

       Table of Contents

      I.

      If thou hadst been a sculptor, what a race

       Of forms divine had thenceforth filled the land!

       Methinks I see thee, glorious workman, stand,

       Striking a marble window through blind space—

       Thy face's reflex on the coming face,

       As dawns the stone to statue 'neath thy hand—

       Body obedient to its soul's command,

       Which is thy thought, informing it with grace!

       So had it been. But God, who quickeneth clay,

       Nor turneth it to marble—maketh eyes,

       Not shadowy hollows, where no sunbeams play—

       Would mould his loftiest thought in human guise:

       Thou didst appear, walking unknown abroad,

       God's living sculpture, all-informed of God.

      II.

      If one should say, "Lo, there thy statue! take

       Possession, sculptor; now inherit it;

       Go forth upon the earth in likeness fit;

       As with a trumpet-cry at morning, wake

       The sleeping nations; with light's terror, shake

       The slumber from their hearts, that, where they sit,

       They leap straight up, aghast, as at a pit

       Gaping beneath;" I hear him answer make:

       "Alas for me, I cannot nor would dare

       Inform what I revered as I did trace!

       Who would be fool that he like fool might fare,

       With feeble spirit mocking the enorm

       Strength on his forehead!" Thou, God's thought thy form,

       Didst live the large significance of thy face.

      III.

      Men have I seen, and seen with wonderment,

       Noble in form, "lift upward and divine,"

       In whom I yet must search, as in a mine,

       After that soul of theirs, by which they went

       Alive upon the earth. And I have bent

       Regard on many a woman, who gave sign

       God willed her beautiful, when he drew the line

       That shaped each float and fold of beauty's tent:

       Her soul, alas, chambered in pigmy space,

       Left the fair visage pitiful—inane—

       Poor signal only of a coming face

       When from the penetrale she filled the fane!—

       Possessed of thee was every form of thine,

       Thy very hair replete with the divine.

      IV.

      If thou hadst built a temple,

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