A Hidden Life and Other Poems, George MacDonald [classic fiction txt] 📗

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.


V.

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.


X.

PILATE'S WIFE.


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