The Lord of life among them rests; They quaff the merry wine;
They do not know, those wedding guests, The present power divine.
Believe, on such a group he smiled, Though he might sigh the while; Believe not, sweet-souled Mary's child Was born without a smile.
He saw the pitchers, high upturned, Their last red drops outpour; His mother's cheek with triumph burned, And expectation wore.
He knew the prayer her bosom housed, He read it in her eyes;
Her hopes in him sad thoughts have roused Ere yet her words arise.
"They have no wine!" she, halting, said, Her prayer but half begun;
Her eyes went on, "Lift up thy head, Show what thou art, my son!"
A vision rose before his eyes, The cross, the waiting tomb, The people's rage, the darkened skies, His unavoided doom:
Ah woman dear, thou must not fret Thy heart's desire to see!
His hour of honour is not yet-- 'Twill come too soon for thee!
His word was dark; his tone was kind; His heart the mother knew;
His eyes in hers looked deep, and shined; They gave her heart the cue.
Another, on the word intent, Had read refusal there;
She heard in it a full consent, A sweetly answered prayer.
"Whate'er he saith unto you, do." Out flowed his grapes divine; Though then, as now, not many knew Who makes the water wine.