She turned and went. The veil of tears
Fell over what had been;
Her childhood's dawning heaven appears,
And kindness makes her clean.
And all the way, the veil of tears
Flows from each drooping lid;
No face she sees, no voice she hears,
Till in her chamber hid.
And then returns one voice, one face,
A presence henceforth sure;
The living glory of the place,
To keep that chamber pure.
Ah, Lord! with all our faults we come,—
With love that fails to ill;
With Thee are our accusers dumb,
With Thee our passions still.
Ah! more than father's holy grace
Thy lips and brow afford;
For more than mother's tender face
We come to Thee, O Lord!
XIV.
MARTHA.
With joyful pride her heart is great:
Her house, in all the land,
Holds Him who conies, foretold by fate,
With prophet-voice and hand.
True, he is poor and lowly born:
Her woman-soul is proud
To know and hail the coming morn
Before the eyeless crowd.
At her poor table will He eat?
He shall be served there
With honour and devotion meet
For any king that were.