Holy trust and love! She gave For Thy sake oblation brave Of her will, her spotless name: Thou for her didst boldly tame God the Word to wait on her; God’s own Wisdom might not stir Till her lovely voice decreed. Thou wouldst have our hearts give heed, And revere her lovely voice; Wait upon her secret choice, Stay her pleasure, as didst Thou, With a marvel on Thy brow, And a silence on Thy breath. We must cherish what she saith; As she pleadeth we must hope For our deeds’ accepted scope, Humble as her Heavenly Son, Till our liberty be won. THE GARDEN OF LAZARUS In a garden at Bethany, O Mother, Mother, Mother! Amid the passion-flowers and olive-leaves-- His Mother-- Yet, behold, how tranquilly She is sad and grieves, Though her Son is gone away, And she knows Passover Day Will not leave her Lamb, her Child unslain! He hath spoken to deaf ears, All save hers, of mortal pain And of parting, yet she has no tears.... He is gone away With His chosen few to eat the Pasch, Leaving in the eyes, she raised to ask, Mute assurance He would come no more Back to Bethany, nor Lazarus’ door. O Mother, Mother, Mother!-- But she keeps so many things apart In their silence, pondering them by heart; Always she has pondered in her heart; And it knows her Son is Son of God.... Silently she gazes where He trod Down the valley to Jerusalem-- His Mother! Round her birds are at their parting song To the light that will not strike them long; And the flowers are very gold With the light before whose loss they fold. Keen the song, as on each wing, And on each rose and each rose-stem Full the burnishing. She hath crossed her hands around her breast, And it seems her heart is taking rest With some Mystery her spirit heeds.... Song of Songs the birds now chaunt, And the lilies vaunt How among them, white, He feeds, Who but now hath left her--fair and white As the lover of the Sunamite. . . . . In the city, in an upper room, As fair Paschal Bread He breaks and gives Unto men His Body while He lives-- Then seeks out a Garden for His Doom. HOLY CROSS Mysterious sway of mortal blood, That urges me upon Thy wood!-- O Holy Cross, but I must tell My love; how all my forces dwell Upon Thee and around Thee day and night! I love the Feet upon thy beam, As a wild lover loves his dream; My eyes can only fix upon that sight. O Tree, my arms are strong and sore To clasp Thee, as when we adore The body of our dearest in our arms! Each pang I suffer hath for aim Thy wood--its comfort is the same-- A taint, an odour from inveterate balms.