The Lord of life beside them rests; They quaff the merry wine; They do not know, those wedding guests, The present power divine. Believe, on such a group He smiled, Though He might sigh the while; Believe not, sweet-souled Mary's child Was born without a smile. He saw the pitchers high upturned, The last red drops to pour; His mother's cheek with triumph burned, And expectation wore. He knew the prayer her bosom housed, He read it in her eyes. Her hopes in Him sad thoughts have roused, Before her words arise. "They have no wine," the mother said, And ceased while scarce begun; Her eyes went on, "Lift up thy head, Show what Thou art, my Son!" A vision rose before his eyes, The cross, the early tomb, The people's rage, the darkened skies, His unavoided doom. "Ah, woman-heart! what end is set Common to thee and me? My hour of honour is not yet,-- 'Twill come too soon for thee." And yet his eyes so sweetly shined, His voice so gentle grew, The mother knew the answer kind-- "Whate'er He sayeth, do." The little feast more joyous grew, Fast flowed the grapes divine; Though then, as now, not many knew Who made the water wine. 4. "He is beside himself," they said; His days, so lonely spent, Him from the well-known path have led In which our fathers went." "Thy mother seeks thee." Cried aloud, The message finds its way; He stands within, amidst a crowd, She in the open day. A flush of light o'erspreads his face, And pours from forth his eyes; He lifts that head, the home of grace, Looks round Him, and replies. "My mother? brothers? who are they?" Hearest thou, Mary mild? This is a sword that well may slay-- Disowned by thy child! Not so. But, brothers, sisters, hear! What says our human Lord? O mother, did it wound thy ear? We thank Him for the word. "Who are my friends?" Oh! hear Him say, And spread it far and broad. "My mother, sisters, brothers, they Who keep the word of God." _My brother!_ Lord of life and me, I am inspired with this! Ah! brother, sister, this must be Enough for all amiss. Yet think not, mother, He denies, Or would thy claim destroy; But glad love lifts more loving eyes To Him who made the joy. Oh! nearer Him is nearer thee: With his obedience bow, And thou wilt rise with heart set free, Yea, twice his mother now. 5. The best of life crowds round its close, To light it from the door; When woman's art no further goes, She weeps, and loves the more. Howe'er she doubted, in his life, And feared his mission's loss, The mother shares the awful strife, And stands beside the cross. Mother, the hour of tears is past; The sword hath reached thy soul; No veil of swoon is round thee cast, No darkness hides the whole. Those are the limbs which thou didst bear; Thy arms, they were his rest; And now those limbs the irons tear, And hold Him from thy breast.