Monday before Easter

'She hath done what she could'
Her poor all hath expended,
With ointment most precious
Her Lord to prepare;
'She hath done what she could'
And her Lord hath commended
For His body her love,
For His burial her care.

The spikenard the worldly
Would lavish on pleasure,
The hair that the trifling
Would deck to deceive,
The one she pours out
On her Lord, without measure,
A robe for His feet
With the other doth weave.

The thoughtless may wonder,
The Godless may slight her,
And murmuring ask,
To what purpose such waste?
What matter! the Lord
With His love doth requite her,
Her deed on the roll
Of His records hath placed.

The days and the hours
When calm in devotion
She hung on His lips,
Or sat low at His feet,
Come soft o'er her heart
With their tender emotion,
Than beauty more precious,
Than spikenard more sweet.

She knows that those days
Are for ever departed,
She lives in their light,
Tho' her soul be in gloom,
She believes, she can trust,
But still, half broken-hearted,
She hopes in His life,
But prepares for His tomb.

Thus Lord give us ever
The grace to watch by Thee,
In sorrow and shade,
As in sunshine and joy;
Our bliss, wheresoever
Thou art, to be nigh Thee,
Our wealth, all we have
For Thy use to employ.

O blest above measure,
If we too may hear Thee
Accept our poor service
Imperfect and rude,
And — marking with favour
The faithful who fear Thee—
This blessing bestow, —
'They have done what they could.'