With guilty eyes bent downward still,
With guilty, listless hands,
All idle to the hopeless will,
She, scorn-bewildered, stands.
Slow rising to his manly height,
Fronting the eager eyes,
The righteous Judge lifts up his might,
The solemn voice replies:
(What, woman! does He speak for thee?
For thee the silence stir?)
"Let him who from this sin is free,
Cast the first stone at her!"
Upon the death-stained, ashy face,
The kindling blushes glow:
No greater wonder sure had place
When Lazarus forth did go!
Astonished, hopeful, growing sad,
The wide-fixed eyes arose;
She saw the one true friend she had,
Who loves her though He knows.
Sick womanhood awakes and cries,
With voiceless wail replete.
She looks no more; her softening eyes
Drop big drops at her feet.
He stoops. In every charnel breast
Dead conscience rises slow.
They, dumb before the awful guest,
Turn one by one, and go.
They are alone. The silence dread
Closes and deepens round.
Her heart is full, her pride is dead;
No place for fear is found.
Hath He not spoken on her side?
Those cruel men withstood?
Even her shame she would not hide—
Ah! now she will be good.
He rises. They are gone. But, lo!
She standeth as before.
"Neither do I condemn thee; go,
And sin not any more."