This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
12
CHRISTINA.
Oft doth He chide, yet earnestly remember,
Long waiting to be gracious: come, poor child,—
Thy brethren scorn thee, come unto thy Father!
Away from Him, in that far country dwelling,
Long hast thou fed upon the husks, too long
Hast hungered sore, while no man gave unto thee;
But there, within thy Father's house, is Bread
Enough and still to spare, and no upbraiding.
My little Child, my Innocent, that scarce
Had left His arms, nor angered Him, nor grieved,
Was not so welcome back to them as thou;
Even now, a great way off, even now He sees thee,
And comes to meet thee—rise and go to Him!
The home is distant, but the way is nigh.
Oh, Thou who, dying, madest us a way,
Who, living, for us keepest ever open
That access to the Father, look on us!"
So speaking solemn, looking up to Heaven,
She knelt down where we stood; upon my knees
Beside her drew me; holding both my hands
Firm folded 'twixt her own, she lifted them
Towards the Mercy -seat; within her arms
She held me still, supporting me; it seemed
As then the very fountains of her soul
Were broken up within her; so she wept,
So pleaded: "Jesu, Lamb of God, Thou
The Father's righteous Son, that takest all
The sin of earth away, have mercy on us!"
But I was passive in her arms, I knew
She wrestled sorely for me; yet as one