The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume I Part 50

_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 shame-faced gladness thrills 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 drag her secret sorrow out Before that mult.i.tude?

The eyes of men she dares not meet-- On her they straight must fall!-- Forward she sped, and at his feet Fell down, and told him all.

To the one refuge she hath flown, The G.o.dhead's burning flame!

Of all earth's women she alone Hears there the tenderest name:

"Daughter," he said, "be of good cheer; Thy faith hath made thee whole:"

With plenteous love, not healing mere, He comforteth her soul.

VIII.

_THE WIDOW WITH THE TWO MITES_.

Here _much_ and _little_ shift and change, With scale of need and time; There _more_ and _less_ have meanings strange, Which the world cannot rime.

Sickness may be more hale than health, And service kingdom high; Yea, poverty be bounty's wealth, To give like G.o.d thereby.

Bring forth your riches; let them go, Nor mourn the lost control; For if ye h.o.a.rd them, surely so Their rust will reach your soul.

Cast in your coins, for G.o.d delights When from wide hands they fall; But here is one who brings two mites, And thus gives more than all.

I think she did not hear the praise-- Went home content with need; Walked in her old poor generous ways, Nor knew her heavenly meed.

IX.

_THE WOMEN WHO MINISTERED UNTO HIM_.

Enough he labours for his hire; Yea, nought can pay his pain; But powers that wear and waste and tire, Need help to toil again.

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

High love takes form in lowly thing; He knows the offering such; To them 'tis little that they bring, To him 'tis very much.

X.

_PILATE'S WIFE_.

Why came in dreams the low-born man Between thee and thy rest?

In vain thy whispered message ran, Though justice was its quest!

Did some young ignorant angel dare-- Not knowing what must be, Or blind with agony of care-- To fly for help to thee?

I know not. Rather I believe, Thou, n.o.bler than thy spouse, His rumoured grandeur didst receive, And sit with pondering brows,

Until thy maidens' gathered tale With possible marvel teems: Thou sleepest, and the prisoner pale Returneth in thy dreams.

Well mightst thou suffer things not few For his sake all the night!

In pale eclipse he suffers, who Is of the world the light.

Precious it were to know thy dream Of such a one as he!

Perhaps of him we, waking, deem As poor a verity.

XI.

_THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA_.

In the hot sun, for water cool She walked in listless mood: When back she ran, her pitcher full Forgot behind her stood.

Like one who followed straying sheep, A weary man she saw, Who sat upon the well so deep, And nothing had to draw.

"Give me to drink," he said. Her hand Was ready with 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 spake of holy days in store, Laid bare the vanished years.

She cannot still her throbbing heart, She hurries to the town, And cries aloud in street and mart, "The Lord is here: come down."

Her life before was strange and sad, A very dreary sound: Ah, let it go--or good or bad: She has the Master found!

XII.

_MARY MAGDALENE_.

With wandering eyes and aimless zeal, She hither, thither, goes; Her speech, 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!

She slumbers into new distress; The night is worse than day: Exulting in her helplessness, h.e.l.l's dogs yet louder bay.

The demons blast her to and fro; She has no quiet place, Enough a woman still, to know A haunting dim disgrace.

A human touch! a pang of death!