The Gospel Women · A Hidden Life and Other Poems

The Mother Mary

Mary, to thee the heart was given
For infant hand to hold,
Thus clasping, an eternal heaven,
The great earth in its fold.

He seized the world with tender might,
By making thee his own;
Thee, lowly queen, whose heavenly height
Was to thyself unknown.

He came, all helpless, to thy power,
For warmth, and love, and birth;
In thy embraces, every hour,
He grew into the earth.

And thine the grief, O mother high,
Which all thy sisters share,
Who keep the gate betwixt the sky
And this our lower air;

And unshared sorrows, gathering slow;
New thoughts within thy heart,
Which through thee like a sword will go,
And make thee mourn apart.

For, if a woman bore a son
That was of angel brood,
Who lifted wings ere day was done,
And soared from where he stood;

Strange grief would fill each mother-moan,
Wild longing, dim, and sore:
"My child! my child! he is my own,
And yet is mine no more!"

And thou, O Mary, years on years,
From child-birth to the cross,
Wast filled with yearnings, filled with fears,
Keen sense of love and loss.

His childish thoughts outsoared thy reach;
His childish tenderness
Had deeper springs than act or speech
To eye or ear express.

Strange pangs await thee, mother mild!
A sorer travail-pain,
Before the spirit of thy child
Is born in thee again.

And thou wilt still forbode and dread,
And loss be still thy fear,
Till form be gone, and, in its stead,
The very self appear.

For, when thy Son hath reached his goal,
His own obedient choice,
Him thou wilt know within thy soul,
And in his joy rejoice.

Ah, there He stands! With wondering face
Old men surround the boy;
The solemn looks, the awful place,
Restrain the mother's joy.

In sweet reproach her joy is hid;
Her trembling voice is low,
Less like the chiding than the chid:
"How couldst Thou leave us so?"

Ah, mother! will thy heart mistake,
Depressed by rising fear,
The answering words that gently break
The silence of thine ear?

"Why sought ye me? Did ye not know
My father's work I do?"
Mother, if He that work forego,
Not long He cares for you.

"Why sought ye me?" Ah, mother dear!
The gulf already opes,
That soon will keep thee to thy fear,
And part thee from thy hopes.

A greater work He hath to do,
Than they can understand;
And therefore mourn the loving few,
With tears throughout the land.

The Lord of life beside them rests;
They quaff the merry wine;
They do not know, those wedding guests,
The present power divine.

Believe, on such a group He smiled,
Though He might sigh the while;
Believe not, sweet-souled Mary's child
Was born without a smile.

He saw the pitchers high upturned,
The last red drops to pour;
His mother's cheek with triumph burned,
And expectation wore.

He knew the prayer her bosom housed,
He read it in her eyes.
Her hopes in Him sad thoughts have roused,
Before her words arise.

"They have no wine," the mother said,
And ceased while scarce begun;
Her eyes went on, "Lift up thy head,
Show what Thou art, my Son!"

A vision rose before his eyes,
The cross, the early tomb,
The people's rage, the darkened skies,
His unavoided doom.

"Ah, woman-heart! what end is set
Common to thee and me?
My hour of honour is not yet,—
'Twill come too soon for thee."

And yet his eyes so sweetly shined,
His voice so gentle grew,
The mother knew the answer kind—
"Whate'er He sayeth, do."

The little feast more joyous grew,
Fast flowed the grapes divine;
Though then, as now, not many knew
Who made the water wine.

"He is beside himself," they said;
His days, so lonely spent,
Him from the well-known path have led
In which our fathers went."

"Thy mother seeks thee." Cried aloud,
The message finds its way;
He stands within, amidst a crowd,
She in the open day.

A flush of light o'erspreads his face,
And pours from forth his eyes;
He lifts that head, the home of grace,
Looks round Him, and replies.

"My mother? brothers? who are they?"
Hearest thou, Mary mild?
This is a sword that well may slay—
Disowned by thy child!

Not so. But, brothers, sisters, hear!
What says our human Lord?
O mother, did it wound thy ear?
We thank Him for the word.

"Who are my friends?" Oh! hear Him say,
And spread it far and broad.
"My mother, sisters, brothers, they
Who keep the word of God."

My brother! Lord of life and me,
I am inspired with this!
Ah! brother, sister, this must be
Enough for all amiss.

Yet think not, mother, He denies,
Or would thy claim destroy;
But glad love lifts more loving eyes
To Him who made the joy.

Oh! nearer Him is nearer thee:
With his obedience bow,
And thou wilt rise with heart set free,
Yea, twice his mother now.

The best of life crowds round its close,
To light it from the door;
When woman's art no further goes,
She weeps, and loves the more.

Howe'er she doubted, in his life,
And feared his mission's loss,
The mother shares the awful strife,
And stands beside the cross.

Mother, the hour of tears is past;
The sword hath reached thy soul;
No veil of swoon is round thee cast,
No darkness hides the whole.

Those are the limbs which thou didst bear;
Thy arms, they were his rest;
And now those limbs the irons tear,
And hold Him from thy breast.

He speaks. With torturing joy the sounds
Drop burning on thine ear;
The mother-heart, though bleeding, bounds
Her dying Son to hear.

Ah! well He knew that not alone
The cross of pain could tell;
That griefs as bitter as his own
Around it heave and swell.

And well He knew what best repose
Would bring a true relief:
He gave, each to the other, those
Who shared a common grief.

"Mother, behold thy son. O friend,
My mother take for thine."
"Ah, son, he loved thee to the end."
"Mother, what honour mine!"

Another son instead, He gave,
Her crying heart to still.
For him, He went down to the grave,
Doing his Father's will.

II.

The Woman That Cried in the Crowd

She says within: "It is a man,
A man of mother born;
She is a woman—I am one,
Alive this holy morn."

Filled with his words that flow in light,
Her heart will break or cry:
A woman's cry bursts forth in might
Of loving agony.

"Blessed the womb, Thee, Lord, that bore!
The breast where Thou hast fed!"
Storm-like those words the silence tore,
Though words the silence bred.

He ceases, listens to the cry,
And knows from whence it springs;
A woman's heart that glad would die
For this her best of things.

Yet there is better than the birth
Of such a mighty son;
Better than know, of all the earth
Thyself the chosen one.

"Yea, rather, blessed they that hear,
And keep the word of God."
The voice was gentle, not severe:
No answer came abroad.

III.

The Mother Op Zebedee's Children

Ah mother! for thy children bold,
But doubtful of thy quest,
Thou begg'st a boon ere it be told,
Avoiding wisdom's test.

Though love is strong to bring thee nigh,
Ambition makes thee doubt;
Ambition dulls the prophet-eye;
It casts the unseen out.

Not that in thousands he be one,
Uplift in lonely state—
Seek great things, mother, for thy son,
Because the things are great.

For ill to thee thy prayers avail,
If granted to thy will;
Ill which thy ignorance would hail,
Or good thou countedst ill.

Them thou wouldst see in purple pride,
Worshipped on every hand;
Their honours mighty but to hide
The evil of the land.

Or wouldst thou thank for granted quest,
Counting thy prayer well heard,
If of the three on Calvary's crest
They shared the first and third?

Let them, O mother, safety win;
They are not safe with thee;
Thy love would shut their glory in;
His love would set it free.

God keeps his thrones for men of strength,
Men that are fit to rule;
Who, in obedience ripe at length,
Have passed through all his school.

Yet higher than thy love can dare,
His love thy sons would set:
They who his cup and baptism share
May share his kingdom yet.

IV.

The Syrophenician Woman

"Bestow her prayer, and let her go;
She crieth after us."
Nay, to the dogs ye cast it so;
Help not a woman thus.

Their pride, by condescension fed,
He speaks with truer tongue:
"It is not meet the children's bread
Should to the dogs be flung."

She, too, shall share the hurt of good,
Her spirit, too, be rent,
That these proud men their evil mood
May see, and so repent.

And that the hidden faith in her
May burst in soaring flame,
From childhood truer, holier,
If birthright not the same.

If for herself had been her prayer,
She might have turned away;
But oh! the woman-child she bare
Was now the demon's prey.

She crieth still; gainsays no words
Contempt can hurt withal;
The daughter's woe her strength affords,
And woe nor strength is small.

Ill names, of proud religion born,
She'll wear the worst that comes;
Will clothe her, patient, in their scorn,
To share the healing crumbs.

And yet the tone of words so sore
The words themselves did rue;
His face a gentle sadness wore,
As if He suffered too.

Mother, thy agony of care
He justifies from ill;
Thou wilt not yield?—He grants the prayer
In fullness of thy will.

Ah Lord! if I my hope of weal
Upon thy goodness built,
Thy will perchance my will would seal,
And say: Be it as thou wilt.

The Widow of Nain

Away from living man's abode
The tides of sorrow sweep,
Bearing a dead man on the road
To where the weary sleep.

And down the hill, in sunny state,
Glad footsteps troop along;
A noble figure walks sedate,
The centre of the throng.

The streams flow onward, onward flow,
Touch, waver, and are still;
And through the parted crowds doth go,
Before the prayer, the will.

"Weep not, O mother! Young man, rise!"
The bearers hear and stay;
Up starts the form; wide flash the eyes;
With gladness blends dismay.

The lips would speak, as if they caught
Some converse sudden broke,
When echoing words the dead man sought,
And Hades' silence woke.

The lips would speak. The eyes' wild stare
Gives place to ordered sight;
The low words die upon the air—
The soul is dumb with light.

He brings no news; he has forgot;
Or saw with vision weak:
Thou seest all our unseen lot,
And yet thou dost not speak.

It may be as a mother keeps
A secret gift in store;
Which if he knew, the child that sleeps,
That night would sleep no more.

Oh, thine are all the hills of gold!
Yet gold Thou gavest none;
Such gifts would leave thy love untold—
The widow clasps her son.

No word of hers hath left a trace
Of uttered joy or grief;
Her tears alone have found a place
Upon the holy leaf.

Oh, speechless sure the widow's pain,
To lose her only boy!
Speechless the flowing tides again
Of new-made mother's joy!

Life is triumphant. Joined in one
The streams flow to the gate;
Death is turned backward to the sun,
And Life is hailed our Fate.

VI.

The Woman Whom Satan Had Bound

For eighteen years, O patient soul,
Thine eyes have sought thy grave;
Thou seest not thy other goal,
Nor who is nigh to save.

Thou nearest gentle words that wake
Thy long-forgotten strength;
Thou feelest tender hands that break
The iron bonds at length.

Thou knowest life rush swift along
Thy form bent sadly low;
And up, amidst the wondering throng
Thou risest firm and slow,

And seëst him. Erect once more
In human right divine,
Joyous thou bendest yet before
The form that lifted thine.

O Saviour, Thou, long ages gone,
Didst lift her joyous head:
Now, many hearts are moaning on,
And bending towards the dead.

They see not, know not Thou art nigh:
One day thy word will come;
Will lift the forward-beaming eye,
And strike the sorrow dumb.

Thy hand wipes off the stains of time
Upon the withered face;
Thy old men rise in manhood's prime
Of dignity and grace.

Thy women dawn like summer days
Old winters from among;
Their eyes are filled with youthful rays,
The voice revives in song.

All ills of life will melt away
Like cureless dreams of woe,
When with the dawning of the day
Themselves the sad dreams go.

O Lord, Thou art my saviour too:
I know not what my cure;
But all my best, Thou, Lord, wilt do;
And hoping I endure.

VII.

The Woman Who Came Behind Him in the Crowd

Near him she stole, rank after rank;
She feared approach too loud;
She touched his garment's hem, and shrank
Back in the sheltering crowd.

A trembling joy goes through her frame:
Her twelve years' fainting prayer
Is heard at last; she is the same
As other women there.

She hears his voice; He looks about.
Ah! is it kind or good
To bring her secret sorrow out
Before that multitude?

With open love, not secret cure,
The Lord of hearts would bless;
With age-long gladness, deep and sure,
With wealth of tenderness.

Her shame can find no shelter meet;
Their eyes her soul appal:
Forward she sped, and at his feet
Fell down, and told Him all.

His presence made a holy place;
No alien eyes were there;
Her shamed-faced grief found godlike grace;
More sorrow, tenderer care.

"Daughter, thy faith hath made thee whole;
Go, and be well, and glad."
Ah, Lord! if we had faith, our soul
Not often would be sad.

Thou knowest all our hidden grief
Which none but Thee can know;
Thy knowledge, Lord, is our relief;
Thy love destroys our woe.

VIII.

The Widow with the Two Mites

Here much and little change their name
With changing need and time;
But more and less new judgments claim,
Where all things are sublime.

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 yet gives more than all."

She heard not, she, the mighty praise;
Went home to care and need:
Perchance the knowledge still delays,
And yet she has the meed.

IX.

The Women Who Ministered unto Him

They give Him freely all they can,
They give Him clothes and food;
In this rejoicing, that the Man
Is not ashamed they should.

Enough He labours for his hire;
Yea, nought can pay his pain;
The sole return He doth require
Is strength to toil again.

And this, embalmed in truth, they bring,
By love received as such;
Their little, by his welcoming,
Transformed into much.

Pilate's Wife

Strangely thy whispered message ran,
Almost in form behest!
Why came in dreams the low-born man
To part thee from thy rest?

It may be that some spirit fair,
Who knew not what must be,
Fled in the anguish of his care
For help for him to thee.

But rather would I think thee great;
That rumours upward went,
And pierced the palisades of state
In which thy rank was pent;

And that a Roman matron thou,
Too noble for thy spouse,
The far-heard grandeur must allow,
And sit with pondering brows.

And so thy maidens' gathered tale
For thee with wonder teems;
Thou sleepest, and the prisoner pale
Returneth in thy dreams.

And thou hast suffered for his sake
Sad visions all the night:
One day thou wilt, then first awake,
Rejoice in his dear light.

XI.

The Woman of Samaria

The empty pitcher to the pool
She bore in listless mood:
In haste she turned; the pitcher full
Beside the water stood.

To her was heard the age's prayer:
He sat upon the brink;
Weary beside the waters fair,
And yet He could not drink.

He begged her help. The woman's hand
Was ready to 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 spoke of holy days in store,
Laid bare the vanished years.

She cannot grapple with her heart,
Till, in the city's bound,
She cries, to ease the joy-born smart,
"I have the Master found."

Her life before was strange and sad;
Its tale a dreary sound:
Ah! let it go—or good or bad,
She has the Master found.

XII.

Mary Magdalene

With eyes aglow, and aimless zeal,
Throughout the land she goes;
Her tones, 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.

The night brings sleep, the sleep distress;
The torture of the day
Returns as free, in darker dress,
In more secure dismay.

No soft-caressing, soothing palm
Her confidence can raise;
No eye hath loving force to calm
And draw her answering gaze.

He comes. He speaks. A light divine
Dawns gracious in thy soul;
Thou seest love and order shine,—
His health will make thee whole.

One wrench of pain, one pang of death,
And in a faint delight,
Thou liest, waiting for new breath,
For morning out of night.

Thou risest up: the earth is fair,
The wind is cool and free;
As when a dream of mad despair
Dissolves in ecstasy.

And, pledge of life and future high,
Thou seest the Master stand;
The life of love is in his eye,
Its power is in his hand.

What matter that the coming time
Will stain thy virgin name;
Attribute thy distress to crime
The worst for woman-fame;

Yea, call that woman Magdalen,
Whom slow-reviving grace
Turneth at last from evil men
To seek the Father's face.

What matters it? The night is gone;
Right joyous shines the sun;
The same clear sun that always shone
Ere sorrow had begun.

Oh! any name may come and bide,
If he be well content
To see not seldom by his side
Thy head serenely bent.

Thou, sharing in the awful doom,
Wilt help thy Lord to die;
And, mourning o'er his empty tomb,
First share his victory.

XIII.

The Woman in the Temple

A still dark joy. A sudden face,
Cold daylight, footsteps, cries;
The temple's naked, shining space,
Aglare with judging eyes.

With all thy wild abandoned hair,
And terror-pallid lips,
Thy blame unclouded to the air,
Thy honour in eclipse;

Thy head, thine eyes droop to the ground,
Thy shrinking soul to hide;
Lest, at its naked windows found,
Its shame be all descried.

Another shuts the world apart,
Low bending to the ground;
And in the silence of his heart,
Her Father's voice will sound.

He stoops, He writes upon the ground,
From all those eyes withdrawn;
The awful silence spreads around
In that averted dawn.

With guilty eyes bent downward still,
With guilty, listless hands,
All idle to the hopeless will,
She, scorn-bewildered, stands.

Slow rising to his manly height,
Fronting the eager eyes,
The righteous Judge lifts up his might,
The solemn voice replies:

(What, woman! does He speak for thee?
For thee the silence stir?)
"Let him who from this sin is free,
Cast the first stone at her!"

Upon the death-stained, ashy face,
The kindling blushes glow:
No greater wonder sure had place
When Lazarus forth did go!

Astonished, hopeful, growing sad,
The wide-fixed eyes arose;
She saw the one true friend she had,
Who loves her though He knows.

Sick womanhood awakes and cries,
With voiceless wail replete.
She looks no more; her softening eyes
Drop big drops at her feet.

He stoops. In every charnel breast
Dead conscience rises slow.
They, dumb before the awful guest,
Turn one by one, and go.

They are alone. The silence dread
Closes and deepens round.
Her heart is full, her pride is dead;
No place for fear is found.

Hath He not spoken on her side?
Those cruel men withstood?
Even her shame she would not hide—
Ah! now she will be good.

He rises. They are gone. But, lo!
She standeth as before.
"Neither do I condemn thee; go,
And sin not any more."

She turned and went. The veil of tears
Fell over what had been;
Her childhood's dawning heaven appears,
And kindness makes her clean.

And all the way, the veil of tears
Flows from each drooping lid;
No face she sees, no voice she hears,
Till in her chamber hid.

And then returns one voice, one face,
A presence henceforth sure;
The living glory of the place,
To keep that chamber pure.

Ah, Lord! with all our faults we come,—
With love that fails to ill;
With Thee are our accusers dumb,
With Thee our passions still.

Ah! more than father's holy grace
Thy lips and brow afford;
For more than mother's tender face
We come to Thee, O Lord!

XIV.

Martha

With joyful pride her heart is great:
Her house, in all the land,
Holds Him who conies, foretold by fate,
With prophet-voice and hand.

True, he is poor and lowly born:
Her woman-soul is proud
To know and hail the coming morn
Before the eyeless crowd.

At her poor table will He eat?
He shall be served there
With honour and devotion meet
For any king that were.

'T is all she can; she does not fail;
Her holy place is his:
The place within the purple veil
In the great temple is.

But many crosses she must bear,
Straight plans are sideways bent;
Do all she can, things will not wear
The form of her intent.

With idle hands, by Him unsought,
Her sister sits at rest;
'Twere better sure she rose, and wrought
Some service for their guest.

She feels a wrong. The feeling grows,
As other cares invade:
Strong in her right, at last she goes
To claim her sister's aid.

Ah, Martha! one day thou like her,
Or here, or far beyond,
Will sit as still, lest, but to stir,
Should break the charmed bond.

XV.

Mary

She sitteth at the Master's feet
In motionless employ;
Her ears, her heart, her soul complete
Drinks in the tide of joy.

She is the Earth, and He the Sun;
He shineth forth her leaves;
She, in new life from darkness won,
Gives back what she receives.

Ah! who but she the glory knows
Of life, pure, high, intense;
Whose holy calm breeds awful shows,
Transfiguring the sense!

The life in voice she drinks like wine;
The Word an echo found;
Her ear the world, where Thought divine
Incarnate was in sound.

Her holy eyes, brimful of light,
Shine all unseen and low;
As if the radiant words all night
Forth at those orbs would go.

The opening door reveals a face
Of anxious household state:
"Car'st thou not, Master, for my case,
That I alone should wait?"

Heavy with light, she lifts those eyes
To Him who calmly heard;
Ready that moment to arise,
And go, before the word.

Her fear is banished by his voice,
Her fluttering hope set free:
"The needful thing is Mary's choice,
She shall remain with me."

Oh, joy to every doubting heart,
Doing the thing it would,
If He, the Holy, take its part,
And call its choice the good!

Not now as then his words are poured
Into her lonely ears;
But many guests are at the board,
And many tongues she hears.

With sacred foot she cometh slow,
With daring, trembling tread;
With shadowing worship bendeth low
Above the godlike head.

The sacred chrism in snowy stone
A gracious odour sends.
Her little hoard, so slowly grown,
In one full act she spends.

She breaks the box, the honoured thing!
The ointment pours amain;
Her priestly hands anoint her King,
And He shall live and reign.

They called it waste. Ah, easy well!
Their love they could endure;
For her, her heart did ache and swell,
That she forgot the poor.

She meant it for the coming crown;
He took it for the doom;
And his obedience laid Him down,
Crowned in the quiet tomb.

XVI.

The Woman That Was a Sinner

She washes them with sorrow sweet,
She wipes them with her hair;
Her kisses soothe the weary feet,
To all her kisses bare.

The best of woman, beauty's crown,
She spends upon his feet;
Her eyes, her lips, her hair, flung down,
In one devotion meet.

His face, his words, her heart had woke.
She judged Him well, in sooth:
Believing Him, her bonds she broke,
And fled to Him for truth.

His holy manhood's perfect worth
Redeems the woman's ill:
Her thanks intense to Him burn forth,
Who owns her woman still.

And so, in kisses, ointment, tears,
And outspread lavish hair,
An earnest of the coming years,
Ascends her thankful prayer.

If Mary too her hair did wind
The holy feet around;
Such tears no virgin eyes could find,
As this sad woman found.

And if indeed his wayworn feet
With love she healed from pain;
This woman found the homage meet,
And taught it her again.

The first in grief, ah I let her be,
And love that springs from woe;
Woe soothed by Him more tenderly
That sin doth make it flow.

Simon, such kisses will not soil;
Her tears are pure as rain;
Her hair—'tis Love unwinds the coil,
Love and her sister Pain.

If He be kind, for life she cares;
A light lights up the day;
She to herself a value bears,
Not yet a castaway.

And evermore her heart arose,
And ever sank away;
For something crowned Him o'er her woes,
More than her best could say.

Rejoice, sweet sisters, holy, pure,
Who hardly know her case:
There is no sin but has its cure,
But finds its answering grace.

Her heart, although it sinned and sank,
Rose other hearts above:
Bless her, dear sisters, bless and thank,
For teaching how to love.

He from his own had welcome sad—
"Away with him," said they;
Yet never lord or poet had
Such homage in his day.

Ah Lord! in whose forgiveness sweet,
Our life becomes intense!
We, brothers, sisters, crowd thy feet—
Ah! make no difference.