Bends to us in another land;The ripe fruit falls into our hand.My mother, Job's dark sister, sitsNow in a corner, prays, and knits.Often across her face there flitsRemembered pain, to mar her joy,At Whose death gave her back her boy.While I who mouthed my blasphemies,Recalling now His agonies,Am found forever on my knees,Ever to praise her Christ with her,Knowing He can at will conferMagic on miracle to proveAnd try me when I doubt His love.If I am blind He does not see;If I am lame He halts with me;There is no hood of pain I wearThat has not rested on His hairMaking Him first initiateBeneath its harsh and hairy weight.He grew with me within the womb;He will receive me at the tomb.He will make plain the misty pathHe makes me tread in love and wrath,And bending down in peace and graceMay wear again my brother's face.
109
