Three women crept at break of day A-grope along the shadowy way Where Joseph’s tomb and garden lay. With blanch of woe each face was white, As the gray Orient’s waxing light Brought back upon their awe-struck sight The sixth-day scene of anguish. Fast The starkly standing cross they passed, And, breathless, neared the gate at last. Each on her throbbing bosom bore A burden of such fragrant store As never there had lain before. Spices, the purest, richest, best, That e’er the musky East possessed, From Ind to Araby-the-Blest, Had they with sorrow-riven hearts Searched all Jerusalem’s costliest marts In quest of,—nards whose pungent arts Should the dead sepulchre imbue With vital odors through and through: ’T was all their love had leave to do! Christ did not need their gifts; and yet Did either Mary once regret Her offering? Did Salome fret Over the unused aloes? Nay! They counted not as waste, that day, What they had brought their Lord. The way Home seemed the path to heaven. They bare, Thenceforth, about the robes they ware The clinging perfume everywhere. So, ministering as erst did these, Go women forth by twos and threes (Unmindful of their morning ease), Through tragic darkness, murk and dim, Where’er they see the faintest rim, Of promise,—all for sake of him Who rose from Joseph’s tomb. They hold It just such joy as those of old, To tell the tale the Marys told. Myrrh-bearers 1 still,—at home, abroad, What paths have holy women trod, Burdened with votive gifts for God,— Rare gifts whose chiefest worth was priced By this one thought, that all sufficed: Their spices had been bruised for Christ! Note 1. Myrophores, a name given to the Marys, in Greek Christian art. [back]
Myrrh-Bearers
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