Magdalen

The Hebrew girl, with flaming brow, The banner-blush of shame, Sinks at the sinless Saviour’s Knees And dares to breathe His name. From the full fountain of her eyes The lava-globes are roll’d— They wash His feet; she spurns them off With her ringlet-scarf of gold.

The Meek One feels the eloquence Of agonizing prayer, The burning tears, the suppliant face, The penitential hair; And when, to crown her brimming woe, The ointment box is riven— “Rise, daughter, rise! Much hast thou loved, Be all thy sins forgiven!”

Dear God! The prayer of good and pure, The canticles of light, Enrobe Thy throne with gorgeous skies, As incense in Thy sight; May the shivered vase of Magdalen Soothe many an outcast’s smart, Teaching what fragrant pleas may spring