He’s better to us than many mothers are,
And children cannot wander beyond reach
Of the sweep of his white raiment. Touch and hold!
And if you weep still, weep where John was laid
While Jesus loved him.’
‘She could say the words,’
She told me, ’exactly as he uttered them
A year back, . . since in any doubt or dark,
They came out like the stars, and shone on her
With just their comfort. Common words, perhaps;
The ministers in church might say the same;
But he, he made the church with what he spoke,—
The difference was the miracle,’ said she.
Then catching up her smile to ravishment,
She added quickly, ’I repeat his words,
But not his tones: can any one repeat
The music of an organ, out of church?
And when he said ‘poor child,’ I shut my eyes
To feel how tenderly his voice broke through,
As the ointment-box broke on the Holy feet
To let out the rich medicative nard.’
She told me how he had raised and rescued her
With reverent pity, as, in touching grief,
He touched the wounds of Christ,—and made her feel
More self-respecting. Hope, he called, belief
In God,—work, worship . . therefore let us pray!
And thus, to snatch her soul from atheism,
