Under her heart her sorrow,
Under her heart her shame,—
And darker than death the morrow
With the brand of the whole world’s blame.
. . . . . . . . . .
Under her heart her glory,—
O rapture that knows no alloy!
Blest Mary! thy travail’s sweet story
Shall waken the whole world’s joy.
OTHER SHEEP.
Pagan, Papist, Protestant!
What is that to thee or me?
Make not Heaven’s mercy scant
With thy pampered bigotry.
Who made thee the judge to be
Of thy brother’s destiny?
Deem not that thy shibboleth
Holds the keys of life and death.
Ah, that secret, sullen sign!
Call it not decree divine;
For a letter, more, or less,
Measures not God’s tenderness.
“Other sheep I have,” said One
Who was more than Mary’s son;
Eyes as blind as thine shall see
His amazing charity.
When it claims the judgment throne,
What is creed but craft and cant?
God will surely know his own—
Pagan, Papist, Protestant.