The Poetical Works of George MacDonald
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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.