The sacred chrism in snowy stone
A gracious odour sends.
Her little hoard, so slowly grown,
In one full act she spends.
She breaks the box, the honoured thing!
The ointment pours amain;
Her priestly hands anoint her King,
And He shall live and reign.
They called it waste. Ah, easy well!
Their love they could endure;
For her, her heart did ache and swell,
That she forgot the poor.
She meant it for the coming crown;
He took it for the doom;
And his obedience laid Him down,
Crowned in the quiet tomb.
XVI.
THE WOMAN THAT WAS A SINNER
She washes them with sorrow sweet,
She wipes them with her hair;
Her kisses soothe the weary feet,
To all her kisses bare.
The best of woman, beauty's crown,
She spends upon his feet;
Her eyes, her lips, her hair, flung down,
In one devotion meet.
His face, his words, her heart had woke.
She judged Him well, in sooth:
Believing Him, her bonds she broke,
And fled to Him for truth.
His holy manhood's perfect worth
Redeems the woman's ill:
Her thanks intense to Him burn forth,
Who owns her woman still.