MARY MAGDALENE.
Surely it shuddered as it felt His weight,
That heavy cross on which He hung till eve!
How could they plunge the spear into His side,
And mock at Him with all their cruel tongues?
O, Mary,
When I think of His dear hands
That ever held out succor to the lost,—
That ever touched to heal the sons of men,—
That ever took the burden and the pain
From heavy hearts—His strong and tender hands
That lifted up the fallen and the weak,
That dwelt in blessing on the little ones,
That broke the bread to feed a multitude,—
Wounded and hurt, the sharp nails through each palm,
My heart, it breaks with pity and with woe!
MARY.
I wonder if he saw us standing there,
So weak, and helpless, and so buffeted.
One soldier pulled the covering from my head,
Another scoffed, ‘O woman ye are fools!’
And yet another, ‘Look now at your King!’
I cared not, nay, was glad to feel that we
Shared in his trial, feared not their contempt,
I hope He saw us, that He understood
That love and faith were one with such as we.
When He cried out, I thought upon a day
When He did come to rest Himself with us,
The harvest fields were yellow, and the sun
Beat down so fiercely that it hurt the head
Of Ruth’s fair little one. ‘The pain!’ he cried,
‘The pain! the pain!!’ with hot tears on his cheek,
And Ruth did lift him up and run with him
To where the Master was, who pushed the curls
Back with His hands and touched the forehead white,
The crying ceased, the quiver left the eyes,
The pallor crept away from off the cheek—
He fell asleep, a smiling, healthy child.
MARY MAGDALENE.
And I thought of a day when He did meet
A woman, in her youth, but lost to all
The joys of innocence. Love she had known,
Such love as leaves the life filled full of shame,
Passion was hers, hate and impurity,
The gnawing of remorse, the longing vain
To lose the mark of sin, the scarlet flush
Of fallen womanhood, the hatred of
The spotless, the desire that they might sink
Low in the mire as she. O, what a soul
She carried on that day! The women drew
Their robes back from her touch, men leered,
And little children seemed afraid to meet
The devilish beauty of her form and face.
Shunned and alone,
Till One came to her side,
And took her hand in His, and what He said
Is past the telling; there are things the soul
Knows well, but cannot blazon to the world.
And when He went His way, upon her brow
Where shame had lain, set the sweet word, Forgiveness.
And Mary Magdalene
Did follow Him, led by a wondrous love,
Did wash His tender feet with grateful tears,
And wipe them with the soft hairs of her head.
MARY.
Joseph of Arimathea laid his form
In a new tomb. I tremble as we come
So near! and tell me, do you note a light,
Fairer than dawn, is cast on all things here.
Behold! one sits upon the stone, robed all
In white, a wondrous radiance on His face,
I fear and am perplexed. Let us go back.
MARY MAGDALENE.
Nay, we must put these spices in His grave—
My fears have gone and left me strong and bold,
Let us advance and question him, for he
Is some good angel keeping watch and ward,
It may be he has caused the heavy stone
To roll away that we might enter in
With love’s last offering. What doth he say?