The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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XII.

MARY MAGDALENE.

With wandering eyes and aimless zeal,

She hither, thither, goes;

Her

speech, her motions, all reveal A mind without repose.

She

climbs the hills, she haunts the sea, By madness tortured, driven;

One

hour's forgetfulness would be A gift from very heaven!

She

slumbers into new distress; The night is worse than day:

Exulting in her helplessness,

Hell's dogs yet louder bay.

The

demons blast her to and fro; She has no quiet place,

Enough a woman still, to know

A haunting dim disgrace.

A human touch! a pang of death!

And in a low delight

Thou liest, waiting for new breath.

For morning out of night.

Thou risest up: the earth is fair,

The wind is cool; thou art free!

Is it a dream of hell's despair

Dissolves in ecstasy?

That man did touch thee! Eyes divine

Make sunrise in thy soul;

Thou seëst love in order shine:--

His health hath made thee whole!

Thou, sharing in the awful doom,

Didst help thy Lord to die;

Then, weeping o'er his empty tomb,

Didst hear him Mary cry.

He stands in haste; he cannot stop;

Home to his God he fares:

"Go

tell my brothers I go up To my Father, mine and theirs."

Run, Mary! lift thy heavenly voice;

Cry, cry, and heed not how;

Make all the new-risen world rejoice--

Its first apostle thou!

What if old tales of thee have lied,

Or truth have told, thou art

All-safe with him, whate'er betide--

Dwell'st with him in God's heart!

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