Poems (Gould, 1833)/The Alabaster Box
THE ALABASTER BOX.
And, who is she that, bearing The Alabaster Box,Is thus, neglected, wearing Her long and silken locks?
Her form is fair, but o'er her A shade of grief is cast,That speaks of wo before her, Or bitterness that 's past.
Oh! whither is she going? And what is it to seek,With sorrow's fountains flowing On either pallid cheek?
Behold! her steps are tending To him who sits at meat.'T is Mary! see her bending To weep at Jesus' feet!
And while her tears bestrew them, As pearls that scatter there,Her lips she presses to them, And wipes them with her hair.
And, of a heart that 's broken For sin that she forsakes,She gives the precious token— The alabaster breaks.
From ointment now, that 's gushing To pour on Jesus' head,Sweet odors forth are rushing, And o'er the dwelling spread.
But they, who see her spilling The spikenard fresh and pure,Rebuke her, as unwilling To sell it for the poor.
While he, whose eye possesses The hidden, inmost thought,Pronounces good, and blesses The work by Mary wrought.
He sees her heart is riven, And bids her sorrow cease.To them, he says, 'forgiven, She shall depart in peace.
'The poor are with you ever! For them your treasures save.But she, before we sever, Anoints me for the grave!'
Fair penitent! when breaking For thee, the stony tomb,With sweeter odors waking, Thy spirit he 'mm perfume!