The Poetical Works of George MacDonald

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II.

Not

now the living words are poured Into one listening ear;

For

many guests are at the board, And many speak and hear.

With sacred foot, refrained and slow,

With daring, trembling tread,

She

comes, in worship bending low Behind the godlike head.

The

costly chrism, in snowy stone, A gracious odour sends;

Her

little hoard, by sparing grown, In one full act she spends.

She

breaks the box, the honoured thing! See how its riches pour!

Her

priestly hands anoint him king Whom peasant Mary bore.

* * * * *

Not

so does John the tale repeat: He saw, for he was there,

Mary anoint the Master's feet,

And wipe them with her hair.

Perhaps she did his head anoint,

And then his feet as well;

And

John this one forgotten point Loved best of all to tell.

'Twas Judas called the splendour waste,

'Twas Jesus said--Not so;

Said that her love his burial graced:

"Ye have the poor; I go."

Her

hands unwares outsped his fate, The truth-king's felon-doom;

The

other women were too late, For he had left the tomb.

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