style="font-size:15px;"> Shall rise thy women fair;Gray Death, a shadow, not a doom,
Lo, is not anywhere!
All ills of life shall melt away
As melts a cureless woe,
When, by the dawning of the day
Surprised, the dream must go.
I think thou, Lord, wilt heal me too,
Whate'er the needful cure;
The great best only thou wilt do,
And hoping I endure.
VII.
THE WOMAN WHO CAME BEHIND HIM IN THE CROWD.
Near him she stole, rank after rank;
She feared approach too loud;
She touched his garment's hem, and shrank
Back in the sheltering crowd.
A shame-faced gladness thrills her frame:
Her twelve years' fainting prayer
Is heard at last! she is the same
As other women there!
She hears his voice. He looks about.
Ah! is it kind or good
To drag her secret sorrow out
Before that multitude?
The eyes of men she dares not meet—
On her they straight must fall!—
Forward she sped, and at his feet
Fell down, and told him all.
To the one refuge she hath flown,
The Godhead's burning flame!
Of all earth's women she alone
Hears there the tenderest name:
"Daughter," he said, "be of good cheer;
Thy faith hath made thee whole:"
With plenteous love, not healing mere,
He comforteth her soul.
VIII.
THE WIDOW WITH THE TWO MITES.
Here much and little shift and change, With scale of need and time; There more and less have meanings strange, Which the world cannot rime.
Sickness may be more hale than health,
And service kingdom high;
Yea, poverty be bounty's wealth,
To give like God thereby.
Bring forth your riches; let them go,
Nor mourn the lost control;
For if ye hoard them, surely so
Their rust will reach your soul.
Cast in your coins, for God delights
When from wide hands they fall;
But here is one who brings two mites,
And thus gives more than all.
I think she did not hear the praise—
Went home content with need;
Walked in her old poor generous ways,
Nor knew her heavenly meed.
IX.
THE WOMEN WHO MINISTERED UNTO HIM.
Enough he labours for his hire;
Yea, nought can pay his pain;
But powers that wear and waste and tire,
Need help to toil again.
They give him freely all they can,
They give him clothes and food;
In this rejoicing, that the man
Is not ashamed they should.
High love takes form in lowly thing;
He knows the offering such;
To them 'tis little that they bring,
To him 'tis very much.
X.
PILATE'S WIFE.
Why came in dreams the low-born man
Between thee and thy rest?
In vain thy whispered message ran,
Though justice was its quest!
Did some young ignorant angel dare—
Not knowing what must be,
Or blind with agony of care—
To fly for help to thee?
I know not. Rather I believe,
Thou, nobler than thy spouse,
His rumoured grandeur didst receive,
And sit with pondering brows,
Until thy maidens' gathered tale
With possible marvel teems:
Thou sleepest, and the prisoner pale
