  THE TWO MARYSTHEY journey sadly, slowly on, The day has scarce begun, Above the hills the rose of dawn Is heralding the sun, While down in still Gethsemane The shadows have not moved, They go, by loss oppressed, to see The grave of One they loved. The eyes of Mary Magdalene With heavy grief are filled; The tender eyes that oft have seen The strife of passion stilled. And never more that tender voice Will whisper "God forgives"; How can the earth at dawn rejoice Since He no longer lives? O, hours that were so full and sweet! So free from doubts and fears! When kneeling lowly at His feet She washed them with her tears! With head low bowed upon her breast The other Mary goes, "He sleeps," she says, "and takes His rest Untroubled by our woes." And spices rare their hands do hold For Him the loved and lost, And Magdalene, by love made bold, Doth maybe bring the most. It is not needed,—see! the stone No longer keeps its place, And on it sits a radiant one A light upon his face. "He is not here, come near and look With thine own doubting eyes, Where once He lay—the earth is shook, And Jesus did arise." And now they turn to go away, Slow stepping, hand in hand, 'Twas something wondrous He did say, If they could understand. The sun is flooding vale and hill, Blue shines the sky above, "All hail!"—O voice that wakes a thrill, Familiar, full of love! From darkest night to brightest day, From deep despair to bliss, They to the Master run straightway, And kneel His feet to kiss. O Love! that made Him come to save, To hang on Calvary, O mighty Love! that from the grave Did lift and set Him free! Sing, Mary Magdalene, sing forth— With voice so sweet and strong, Sing, till it thrills through all the earth— The Resurrection Song! SHE is so winsome and so wise She sways us at her will, And oft the question will arise What mission does she fill? And so I say, with pride untold And love beyond degree, This woman with the heart of gold, She just keeps house for me. A full content dwells in her face, She's quite in love with life, And for a title wears with grace The sweet old-fashioned "Wife." What though I toil from morn till night, What though I weary grow, A spring of love and dear delight Doth ever softly flow. Our children climb upon her knee And lie upon her breast, And ah! her mission seems to me The highest and the best.— And so I say, with pride untold And love beyond degree, This woman with the heart of gold, She just keeps house for me. QUEBEC, the grey old city on the hill, Lies with a golden glory on her head, Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still, Of other days and all her mighty dead. The white doves perch upon the cannons grim, The flowers bloom where once did run a tide Of crimson, when the moon rose pale and dim Above the battlefield so grim and wide. Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow Of pride, of tenderness—her stirring past— The strife, the valor, of the long ago Feels at her heartstrings. Strong, and tall, and vast, She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace, A wondrous softness on her grey old face. |
|
