The poetical works of George MacDonald - LightNovelsOnl.com
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A vision rose before his eyes, The cross, the waiting tomb, The people's rage, the darkened skies, His unavoided doom:
Ah woman dear, thou must not fret Thy heart's desire to see!
His hour of honour is not yet-- 'Twill come too soon for thee!
His word was dark; his tone was kind; His heart the mother knew; His eyes in hers looked deep, and s.h.i.+ned; They gave her heart the cue.
Another, on the word intent, Had read refusal there; She heard in it a full consent, A sweetly answered prayer.
"Whate'er he saith unto you, do."
Out flowed his grapes divine; Though then, as now, not many knew Who makes the water wine.
IV.
"He is beside himself!" Dismayed, His mother, brothers talked: He from the well-known path had strayed In which their fathers walked!
With troubled hearts they sought him. Loud Some one the message bore:-- He stands within, amid a crowd, They at the open door:--
"Thy mother and thy brothers would Speak with thee. Lo, they stand Without and wait thee!" Like a flood Of sunrise on the land,
A new-born light his face o'erspread; Out from his eyes it poured; He lifted up that gracious head, Looked round him, took the word:
"My mother--brothers--who are they?"
Hearest thou, Mary mild?
This is a sword that well may slay-- Disowned by thy child!
Ah, no! My brothers, sisters, hear-- They are our humble lord's!
O mother, did they wound _thy_ ear?-- _We_ thank him for the words.
"Who are my friends?" Oh, hear him say, Stretching his hand abroad, "My mother, sisters, brothers, are they That do the will of G.o.d!"
_My brother_! Lord of life and me, If life might grow to this!-- Would it not, brother, sister, be Enough for all amiss?
Yea, mother, hear him and rejoice: Thou art his mother still, But may'st be more--of thy own choice Doing his Father's will.
Ambition for thy son restrain, Thy will to G.o.d's will bow: Thy son he shall be yet again.
And twice his mother thou.
O humble man, O faithful son!
That woman most forlorn Who yet thy father's will hath done, Thee, son of man, hath born!
V.
Life's best things gather round its close To light it from the door; When woman's aid no further goes, She weeps and loves the more.
She doubted oft, feared for his life, Yea, feared his mission's loss; But now she shares the losing strife, And weeps beside the cross.
The dreaded hour is come at last, The sword hath reached her soul; The hour of tortured hope is past, And gained the awful goal.
There hangs the son her body bore, The limbs her arms had prest!
The hands, the feet the driven nails tore Had lain upon her breast!
He speaks; the words how faintly brief, And how divinely dear!
The mother's heart yearns through its grief Her dying son to hear.
"Woman, behold thy son.--Behold Thy mother." Blessed hest That friend to her torn heart to fold Who understood him best!
Another son--ah, not instead!-- He gave, lest grief should kill, While he was down among the dead, Doing his father's will.
No, not _instead_! the coming joy Will make him hers anew; More hers than when, a little boy, His life from hers he drew.
II.
_THE WOMAN THAT LIFTED UP HER VOICE_.
Filled with his words of truth and right, Her heart will break or cry: A woman's cry bursts forth in might Of loving agony.
"Blessed the womb, thee, Lord, that bare!
The bosom that thee fed!"
A moment's silence filled the air, All heard the words she said.
He turns his face: he knows the cry, The fountain whence it springs-- A woman's heart that glad would die For woman's best of things.
Good thoughts, though laggard in the rear, He never quenched or chode: "Yea, rather, blessed they that hear And keep the word of G.o.d!"
He would uplift her, not rebuke.
The crowd began to stir.
We miss how she the answer took; We hear no more of her.
III.
_THE MOTHER OF ZEBEDEE'S CHILDREN_.
She knelt, she bore a bold request, Though shy to speak it out: Ambition, even in mother's breast, Before him stood in doubt.
"What is it?" "Grant thy promise now, My sons on thy right hand And on thy left shall sit when thou Art king, Lord, in the land."
"Ye know not what ye ask." There lay A baptism and a cup She understood not, in the way By which he must go up.
Her mother-love would lift them high Above their fellow-men; Her woman-pride would, standing nigh, Share in their grandeur then!
Would she have joyed o'er prosperous quest, Counted her prayer well heard, Had they, of three on Calvary's crest, Hung dying, first and third?
She knoweth neither way nor end: In dark despair, full soon, She will not mock the gracious friend With prayer for any boon.
