The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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VI.

THE WOMAN WHOM SATAN HAD BOUND.

For

years eighteen she, patient soul, Her eyes had graveward sent;

Her

earthly life was lapt in dole, She was so bowed and bent.

What words! To her? Who can be near?

What tenderness of hands!

Oh!

is it strength, or fancy mere? New hope, or breaking bands?

The

pent life rushes swift along Channels it used to know;

Up,

up, amid the wondering throng, She rises firm and slow--

To bend again in grateful awe--

For will is power at length--

In homage to the living Law

Who gives her back her strength.

Uplifter of the down-bent head!

Unbinder of the bound!

Who

seest all the burdened
Who only see the ground!

Although they see thee not, nor cry,

Thou watchest for the hour

To lift the forward-beaming eye,

To wake the slumbering power!

Thy

hand will wipe the stains of time From off the withered face;

Upraise thy bowed old men, in prime

Of youthful manhood's grace!

Like summer days from winter's tomb,

Shall rise thy women fair;

Gray Death, a shadow, not a doom,

Lo, is not anywhere!

All

ills of life shall melt away As melts a cureless woe,

When, by the dawning of the day

Surprised, the dream must go.

I think thou, Lord, wilt heal me too,

Whate'er the needful cure;

The

great best only thou wilt do, And hoping I endure.

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