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
Ere yet her words arise.
"They have no wine!" she, halting, said,
Her prayer but half begun;
Her eyes went on, "Lift up thy head,
Show what thou art, my son!"
A vision rose before his eyes,
The cross, the waiting tomb,
The people's rage, the darkened skies,
His unavoided doom:
Ah woman dear, thou must not fret
Thy heart's desire to see!
His hour of honour is not yet—
'Twill come too soon for thee!
His word was dark; his tone was kind;
His heart the mother knew;
His eyes in hers looked deep, and shined;
They gave her heart the cue.
Another, on the word intent,
Had read refusal there;
She heard in it a full consent,
A sweetly answered prayer.
"Whate'er he saith unto you, do."
Out flowed his grapes divine;
Though then, as now, not many knew
Who makes the water wine.
IV.
"He is beside himself!" Dismayed,
His mother, brothers talked:
He from the well-known path had strayed
In which their fathers walked!
With troubled hearts they sought him. Loud
Some one the message bore:—
He stands within, amid a crowd,
They at the open door:—
"Thy mother and thy brothers would
Speak with thee. Lo, they stand
Without and wait thee!" Like a flood
Of sunrise on the land,
A new-born light his face o'erspread;
Out from his eyes it poured;
He lifted up that gracious head,
Looked round him, took the word:
"My mother—brothers—who are they?"
Hearest thou, Mary mild?
This is a sword that well may slay—
Disowned by thy child!
Ah, no! My brothers, sisters, hear—
They are our humble lord's!
O mother, did they wound thy ear?— We thank him for the words.
"Who are my friends?" Oh, hear him say,
Stretching his hand abroad,
"My mother, sisters, brothers, are they
That do the will of God!"
My brother! Lord of life and me, If life might grow to this!— Would it not, brother, sister, be Enough for all amiss?
Yea, mother, hear him and rejoice:
Thou art his mother still,
But may'st be more—of thy own choice
Doing his Father's will.
Ambition for thy son restrain,
Thy will to God's will bow:
Thy son he shall be yet again.
And twice his mother thou.
O humble man, O faithful son!
That woman most forlorn
Who yet thy father's will hath done,
Thee, son of man, hath born!
V.
Life's best things gather round its close
To light it from the door;
When woman's aid no further goes,
She weeps and loves the more.
She doubted oft, feared for his life,
Yea, feared his mission's loss;
But now she shares the losing strife,
And weeps beside the cross.
The dreaded hour is come at last,
The sword hath reached her soul;
The hour of tortured hope is past,
And gained the awful goal.
There hangs the son her body bore,
The limbs her arms had prest!
The hands, the feet the driven nails tore
Had lain upon her breast!
He speaks; the words how faintly brief,
And how divinely dear!
The mother's heart yearns through its grief
Her dying son to hear.
"Woman, behold thy son.—Behold
Thy mother." Blessed hest
That friend to her torn heart to fold
Who understood him best!
Another son—ah, not instead!—
He gave,
