As it Began to Dawn
MARY MAGDALENE.
A coward heart I carry in my breast,
Think you the soldiers stern will let us put
These spices that we carry, in his grave,
Or will they drive us hence?
See how I start
If but the breeze shakes on my head,
From limb or vine, the heavy drops of dew—
Art weary Mary, weary and afraid?
MARY.
Nay, but so heavy-hearted, and so lost
To hope, so full of horrors was that day,
So full of grief, the mem’ry of it all
Will weigh upon me till my life is done.
And if I close my eyes, I see in dreams
His arms stretched out upon that cross so wide,
His head, His kingly head, crowned with the thorns.
MARY MAGDALENE.
Hush, Mary,
Or I drop upon the ground in weakness.
My friend! my tender, and my faithful friend!
When down thy forehead crept those crimson drops
The agony was more than I could bear.
’Tis said that Peter and the rest did sleep,
Did sleep and take their rest that last night in
Gethsemane, leaving Him there to keep
His watch alone. O, poverty of love!
Think, Mary, had we heard that sobbing prayer
Could we have slept and our Lord sorrowful?
MARY.
Nay, we would but have had one thought, to share
His grief, to comfort and to cheer,
But man
Is dull at conning tasks of tenderness,
He is well qualified to guard with sword,
But not to keep long watches in the night;
His, is the strength to fight, ours, is the strength
To wait, and waiting, hold our faith In love.
They loved Him well, but being men they slept.
A loneliness
Grows on me as the dawn
Lights hill and valley, and the fertile plain.
His feet have pressed the paths, oft has He gone
Down this way to the gate, oft has He sought
The stillness, and the quiet of that mount
Lifting its head to heaven—Mount Olivet—
And always will there be on Calvary
The heavy shadow of a cross of wood,
And if a hardy flower blossomed there,
Blood red its hue would be.