For the heart of man that waketh, Yet hath not ceased to dream, Is the only fount that maketh The sweet and bitter stream. But the sweet will still be flowing When the bitter stream is dry, And glad music only going On the breezes of the sky. I thank Thee, boundless Giver, That the thoughts Thou givest flow In sounds that like a river All through the darkness go. And though few should swell the pleasure By sharing this my wine, My heart will clasp its treasure, This secret gift of Thine. THE GOSPEL WOMEN. I. THE MOTHER MARY. 1. Mary, to thee the heart was given For infant hand to hold, Thus clasping, an eternal heaven, The great earth in its fold. He seized the world with tender might, By making thee his own; Thee, lowly queen, whose heavenly height Was to thyself unknown. He came, all helpless, to thy power, For warmth, and love, and birth; In thy embraces, every hour, He grew into the earth. And thine the grief, O mother high, Which all thy sisters share, Who keep the gate betwixt the sky And this our lower air; And unshared sorrows, gathering slow; New thoughts within thy heart, Which through thee like a sword will go, And make thee mourn apart. For, if a woman bore a son That was of angel brood, Who lifted wings ere day was done, And soared from where he stood; Strange grief would fill each mother-moan, Wild longing, dim, and sore: "My child! my child! he is my own, And yet is mine no more!" And thou, O Mary, years on years, From child-birth to the cross, Wast filled with yearnings, filled with fears, Keen sense of love and loss. His childish thoughts outsoared thy reach; His childish tenderness Had deeper springs than act or speech To eye or ear express. Strange pangs await thee, mother mild! A sorer travail-pain, Before the spirit of thy child Is born in thee again. And thou wilt still forbode and dread, And loss be still thy fear, Till form be gone, and, in its stead, The very self appear. For, when thy Son hath reached his goal, His own obedient choice, Him thou wilt know within thy soul, And in his joy rejoice. 2. Ah, there He stands! With wondering face Old men surround the boy; The solemn looks, the awful place, Restrain the mother's joy. In sweet reproach her joy is hid; Her trembling voice is low, Less like the chiding than the chid: "How couldst Thou leave us so?" Ah, mother! will thy heart mistake, Depressed by rising fear, The answering words that gently break The silence of thine ear? "Why sought ye me? Did ye not know My father's work I do?" Mother, if He that work forego, Not long He cares for you. "Why sought ye me?" Ah, mother dear! The gulf already opes, That soon will keep thee to thy fear, And part thee from thy hopes. A greater work He hath to do, Than they can understand; And therefore mourn the loving few, With tears throughout the land. 3.