CHRISTUS. Some one hath touched my garments; I perceive That virtue is gone out of me.
A WOMAN.
O Master!
Forgive me! For I said within myself,
If I so much as touch his garment's hem,
I shall be whole.
CHRISTUS.
Be of good comfort, daughter!
Thy faith hath made thee whole. Depart in peace.
A MESSENGER from the house. Why troublest thou the Master? Hearest thou not The flute players, and the voices of the women Singing their lamentation? She is dead!
THE MINSTRELS AND MOURNERS. We have girded ourselves with sackcloth! We have covered our heads with ashes! For our young men die, and our maidens Swoon in the streets of the city; And into their mother's bosom They pour out their souls like water!
CHRISTUS, going in. Give place. Why make ye this ado, and weep? She is not dead, but sleepeth.
THE MOTHER, from within.
Cruel Death!
To take away front me this tender blossom!
To take away my dove, my lamb, my darling!
THE MINSTRELS AND MOURNERS. He hath led me and brought into darkness, Like the dead of old in dark places! He hath bent his bow, and hath set me Apart as a mark for his arrow! He hath covered himself with a cloud, That our prayer should not pass through and reach him!
THE CROWD. He stands beside her bed! He takes her hand! Listen, he speaks to her!
CHRISTUS, within.
Maiden, arise!