THE PENITENT’S OFFERING.
ST LUKE, VII. XXXVII.-IX.
Thou that with pallid cheek,
And eyes in sadness meek,
And faded locks that humbly swept the ground,
From thy long wanderings won,
Before the all-healing Son,
Did’st bow thee to the earth—O lost and found!
When thou wouldst bathe his feet
With odours richly sweet,
And many a shower of woman’s burning tear,
And dry them with that hair,
Brought low the dust to wear,
From the crown’d beauty of its festal year.
Did He reject thee then,
While the sharp scorn of men
On thy once bright and stately head was cast?
No! from the Saviour’s mien,
A solemn light serene
Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last.
For thee, their smiles no more
Familiar faces wore;
Voices, once kind, had learn’d the stranger’s tone:
Who raised thee up, and bound
Thy silent spirit’s wound?—
He, from all guilt the stainless, He alone!
But which, O erring child,
From home so long beguiled!—
Which of thine offerings won those words of heaven,
That o’er the bruisèd reed,
Condemn’d of earth to bleed,
In music pass’d, “Thy sins are all forgiven?”
Was it that perfume, fraught
With balm and incense, brought
From the sweet woods of Araby the Blest?
Or that fast-flowing rain
Of tears, which not in vain,
To Him who scorn’d not tears, thy woes confess’d?
No! not by these restored
Unto thy Father’s board,
Thy peace, that kindled joy in heaven, was made;
But, costlier in his eyes,
By that bless’d sacrifice,
Thy heart, thy full deep heart, before Him laid.