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.