The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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IV.

THE SYROPHENICIAN WOMAN.

"Grant, Lord, her prayer, and let her go;

She crieth after us."

Nay, to the dogs ye cast it so;

Serve not a woman thus.

Their pride, by condescension fed,

He shapes with teaching tongue:

"It

is not meet the children's bread To little dogs be flung."

The

words, for tender heart so sore, His voice did seem to rue;

The

gentle wrath his countenance wore, With her had not to do.

He makes her share the hurt of good,

Takes what she would have lent,

That those proud men their evil mood

May see, and so repent;

And

that the hidden faith in her May burst in soaring flame:

With childhood deeper, holier,

Is birthright not the same?

Ill

names, of proud religion born-- She'll wear the worst that comes;

Will clothe her, patient, in their scorn,

To share the healing crumbs!

"Truth, Lord; and yet the puppies small

Under the table eat

The

crumbs the little ones let fall-- That is not thought unmeet."

The

prayer rebuff could not amate Was not like water spilt:

"O woman, but thy faith is great!

Be it even as thou wilt."

Thrice happy she who yet will dare,

Who, baffled, prayeth still!

He,

if he may, will grant her prayer In fulness of her will!

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