| |
| HIS 1 face, his words, her heart awoke; | |
| Awoke her slumbering truth. | |
| She judged him well; her bonds she broke, | |
| And fled to him for ruth. | |
| |
| With tears she washed his weary feet; | 5 |
| She wiped them with her hair. | |
| Her kisses—call them not unmeet, | |
| When they were welcome there. | |
| |
| What saint a richer crown to throw, | |
| Could love’s ambition teach? | 10 |
| Her eyes, her lips, her hair down go, | |
| In love’s despair of speech. | |
| |
| His holy manhood’s perfect worth | |
| Owns her a woman still; | |
| It is impossible henceforth | 15 |
| For her to stoop to ill. | |
| |
| Her to herself his words restore, | |
| The radiance to the day; | |
| A horror to herself no more, | |
| Nor yet a castaway! | 20 |
| |
| And so, in kisses, ointment, tears, | |
| And outspread lavish hair, | |
| Love, shame, and hopes, and griefs, and fears, | |
| Mingle in worship rare. | |
| |
| Mary, thy hair thou didst not spread | 25 |
| About the holy feet; | |
| Didst only bless the holy head | |
| With spikenard’s ointment meet. | |
| |
| Or if thou didst, as some would hold— | |
| Thy heart the lesson caught, | 30 |
| The abandonment so humble—bold, | |
| From her whom pardon taught. | |
| |
| And if thy hair thou too didst wind | |
| The holy feet around, | |
| Such plenteous tears thou couldst not find | 35 |
| As this sad woman found. | |
| |
| Let her in grief the first be read— | |
| And love, the woful sweet! | |
| Be thou content to bless his head, | |
| Let this one crown his feet. | 40 |
| |
| Simon, her kisses will not soil; | |
| Her tears are pure as rain; | |
| Eye not her hair’s untwisted coil, | |
| Baptised in pardoning pain. | |
| |
| For God hath pardoned all her much, | 45 |
| Her iron bands have burst; | |
| Her love could never have been such | |
| Had not his love been first. | |
| |
| But oh! rejoice, ye sisters pure, | |
| Who hardly know her case: | 50 |
| There is no sin but has its cure, | |
| Its all-consuming grace. | |
| |
| He did not leave her soul in hell, | |
| ’Mong shards the silver dove, | |
| But raised her pure that she might tell | 55 |
| Her sisters how to love. | |
| |
| She gave him all your best love can. | |
| Was he despised and sad?— | |
| Yes; and yet never mighty man | |
| Such perfect homage had. | 60 |
| |
| Jesus, by whose forgiveness sweet | |
| Her love grew so intense, | |
| We, sinners all, come round Thy feet— | |
| Lord, make no difference. | |
