40
poems.
MARY AT THE FEET OF JESUS.
Humbly before her Master Mary knelt;
And as upon her cheek, the teardrop fell,
And bathed those feet so often turned to bless
The faithful soul, relying on his love,
She with her clustering hair the moisture wiped;
And kissed with the pure lip of holy love,
His feet, in whose blessed presence low she bowed.
Then o'er them with meek care the perfume poured,
More sweet than gales which blow from Eastern shores,
And breathe around the earth their soothing power.
And as upon her cheek, the teardrop fell,
And bathed those feet so often turned to bless
The faithful soul, relying on his love,
She with her clustering hair the moisture wiped;
And kissed with the pure lip of holy love,
His feet, in whose blessed presence low she bowed.
Then o'er them with meek care the perfume poured,
More sweet than gales which blow from Eastern shores,
And breathe around the earth their soothing power.
Was there a heart that could behold untouched
The holiest deed that woman e'er performed?
Never perchance those hands had held the cup
Of charity, to parched and dying lips,
Or bathed the feet of lone and sorrowing care.
That precious work was spurned, scorned by his heart,
Who never knew the blissful tear which flows,
From the blest consciousness of sins forgiven.
The holiest deed that woman e'er performed?
Never perchance those hands had held the cup
Of charity, to parched and dying lips,
Or bathed the feet of lone and sorrowing care.
That precious work was spurned, scorned by his heart,
Who never knew the blissful tear which flows,
From the blest consciousness of sins forgiven.
But list! what words fell from the lips of Him,
Who spake as never spake a mortal man?
Whose ear was opened to the unspoken thought,
Alike as to the uttered song of praise?
Breathed there resentment from his opening lip?
Sat there the frown of anger on his brow?
There nought was seen but sacred sympathy,
Who spake as never spake a mortal man?
Whose ear was opened to the unspoken thought,
Alike as to the uttered song of praise?
Breathed there resentment from his opening lip?
Sat there the frown of anger on his brow?
There nought was seen but sacred sympathy,
