Book VI. The Great Consummation

"If Death" — the Indian said — "be dead, indeed," —
(That sixth day in the House at Magdala)
"Be dead in knowing that one human soul
Once laid this flesh aside, and went, and came,
Taking it up again; — as she avers
Whose deep eyes stayed my speaking yesterday,
Then am I answered! Then thy Master wrought
Better than Buddh, showing the world beyond
Where men shall find their treasure of good works
Laid up in trust, awaiting; loss made gain;
The Kingdom come: unless, in truth, 'twere dream
Thy Maid had of the marvels and the Voice,
And thy Lord — of His knowledge — spake 'She
sleeps'

Such sleep, belike, not life nor death, but swoon —
In some dim region where the dying halt —
As locked the senses of thy Widow's son
In Nain; — unto this wisest Master known
At eye-glance; and He did but break a trance."

"Good Friend! I think Truth was the merchandise
Thy camels toiled to fetch this weary way
From Hind to Jordan," Mary answered him,
"Else were I loath to say what I shall say
Telling thee farther of a living one
Healthful to-day, with colours of quick blood
Ruddying his cheek, and bright hair clustering;
No stronger step on Carmel's steepest side!
No rower on our lake-wave lustier!
Who lay four nights a dead man in the tomb;
But on the Master's call, came forth therefrom
Bound limb and loin with grave-cloths, — hands and
feet, —
Forth from the pit, I say, into the Sun —
Bound with those bands, as we had laid him there
Four days before, to moulder with the worm; —
'We!' for this dead man, — living now, and hale —
Is El' Azar of Bethany, well known
In all these parts — my Brother. And I saw
Those garments of the grave stripped swiftly off,
And what we put there — pale, and cold, and lean,
.A body broke by ten days' fever-fits —
Stride over that black threshold, fair and fresh,
Into the daylight, at my Master's word.
Last year he sojourned long in Magdala;
Yet 'tis not well he should be marked! He walks
A wordless, gentle, wistful man, aware
Of more than may be said in any speech;
Not of our world, though in it, well-content
To wait Heaven's way in all things. Time will be
The truth shall widely spread; now it is best
We seal our lips, and watch him silently
Coming and going, manifesting God.

"Yet, for thy sake, I speak, — more freely speak
Because what I must tell thee, at the close,
Of wonder, glory, conquest, comfort, joy
Of Consummation crowned, and passage pierced —
Blissful, triumphant — from high sacrifice
To heavenly peace and confirmation strong,
Destroying Doubt and Death, — cometh more sure
To thee, as heretofore to me and us,
With knowing this. We were in Gadara,
And — I remember — 'twas a summer's eve,
Amid the yellow daisies of the Lake
The children gathered round Him, brought from far
Only that He might touch them. 'Twas that hour
When He rebuked His Twelve, saying, 'Suffer
these
To come to Me! the Kingdom is of such!
Who shall receive it as a little child
Entereth therein. 'So sitting, with a babe
Asleep upon His breast, and on His knee
One round-eyed 'Angel of the Kingdom,' nursed
Full fatherly: — a shallop drove its keel
Sharp on the tinkling shingle, and thence gave
My Brother to our band. For I had told
At Bethany how great the Master was;
How wise, how holy, how compassionate.
And El' Azar sped, running through the reeds;
And thrust past peasants, mothers, and the Twelve;
And kneeled and prayed: 'Good Master! wherewithal
Shall I gain Life eternal? 'Jesus said:
'Call Me not "good!" None is all good save One!
Thou knowest the Commandments '— at those words
Reciting Moses. Quoth my Brother, then,
'All these have I observed from my youth up!'
And Jesus, seeing, loved him; kissed his head
As Rabbis will when scholars answer well;
But bade him go his way, sell all his goods,
And give his shekels to the poor, and buy
Treasures in Heaven. Thereat El' Azar turned
Sad, for he was a Ruler, owning vines,
Milch-kine and olive-yards. Yet, that kind kiss
Lay strong upon him; and he did this thing,
And gave much wealth, and lived for better
gold,
And grew the Master's friend, faithful and close,
Ministering, when we came to Bethany.

"Thus fell it; — near to His last Passover —
That El' Azar lay sick; and we did send
Messengers saying: 'Lord! the man Thou lov'st
Lies sick to death.' But, that day came He not,
And that day died my Brother; and next day
He would not come: He had His purposes!
They told us how He said: 'El' Azar sleeps;
I go to waken him from sleep; 'and, next,
When one made answer: 'Lord! but if he sleep
He shall do well!' the Master plainly said:
'Our friend is dead: for your sakes I am glad
I was not there, since now ye shall believe;
Let us rise up and go; and make him live!'

"But we, in Bethany, had borne our dead
Unto his tomb. It was a cavern cut
On the hill's face, with winding steps let down
Into the darkness, to a sepulchre
Hewn chamber-wise out of the vaulted rock.
A great stone golel sealed the entrance-place,
And shut him with his father's bones. Meseems,
When thou didst journey here to visit us,
Coming, by Bethphage, o'er Olivet —
Near to that point where proud Jerusalem
Burns at the northward bend — all white and
gold—
Thy beasts trod by the spot. And, being nigh
The City's gates, many Jews came to us
For friendship, and to mingle tears o'er him.
Suddenly rumour grew the Lord drew near:
My sister rose to seek, and quick returned
Whispering, 'Yea, He is here, and calleth thee!'
And while we hastened — many following us —
She told me, on the road, all which had fall'n;
How she had said — distraught — that, even now,
What He might ask God's power would grant to

Him;
How Jesus answered: 'He shall rise again!'
And she had sighed: 'True, Lord! I know, I
know!
When end of all things comes; at the Last Day!'
On which He spake; — the words dwell in my
heart! —
'I am the Resurrection and the Life; he that
Believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall
He live.

'And whosoever liveth and believeth in Me
Shall never die.'

"Yet, if we understood not! And I fell
At those dear feet with no hope lightening
My heavy-burdened breast. Too late! Too late!
Why had He tarried, only seven leagues off,
Who might have healed; and El' Azar so loved?
'Lord, hadst Thou but been here!' brake from my
lips,
'My brother had not died!' Then, as I think,
To see our tears, and all those mourning folk;
And know our lamentation one salt drop
In this World's brimful Sea of misery;
Bethinking how, by night and day; near, far,
Eyes stream, hearts crack, and homes are laid in
waste
For terror of this secret-footed Death
Which comes unseen, and slayeth silently;
And hath not answered once, though myriads ask:
'What art thou? Wilt thou give us back our

Dead?'

Bethinking Him of this, compassionate,
Folding all human sorrows in His heart,
Our Heavenly Master groaned in spirit; shook,
A-tremble with that Vast Love, gathering
Against His breast all such as weep on Earth.
'Where have ye laid him?' sighed He. When I
said,
'Lord! come and see!' the gracious eyes were
wet
With tears which comfort all tears.
"Jesus wept.
"So, to the Tomb we came. The grey slab made
Its monstrous door, where tread of guest falls not,
Nor knock is answered, but the Dead within
Keep speechless company, and, in the dark —
With none to visit them save rat and worm;
Nothing befalling but a bone which drops; —
Moulder together, all a-dust and dry;
Saying no word, — disconsolate, undone,
Staring with empty eyes at olive-roots
Whose fruit they used to pluck — for others now!
Saying no word! Husband and Wife and Child,
Brother and Sister, — who were wont to mix
Lips, hands, and hearts in Earth's warm fellowship,
Silent and separate, on noisome beds.
Oh, till He lived did we not dread our Dead
So still, so altered, so unlovely, so?
Nay! when He spoke: 'Roll Me this stone away!'
My sister sobbed: 'It may not be! dear Lord!
'Tis four days gone! by now he is corrupt!'

"' Roll Me the stone away! 'He said again:
'Spake I not unto thee that thou should'st see
The glory of God? 'Then, eight young men of
thews,
With ox-yokes and the olive-poles, pushed back
The leaning rock; and the black adit gaped
As 'twere the mouth of Tophet, horrible!
The throng drew off; the very sunshine seemed
Loath to re-enter, lighting first two steps
Of the dark stairway, and the hollowed roof
"Where a bat clung and cried, and spiders hung
In broken empty webs, and foul flies crept.
Next, Jesus, no more weeping, but His eyes
With pity and love and power irradiate,
Drew close, and set His holy fearless foot
On that grim threshold, and did pray this prayer:
'Father! I thank Thee Thou hast heard Me here!
I know Thou hearest alway; but because
The people standing nigh shall hereby see
That Thou hast sent Me, I did ask, and Thou
Hast answered! 'Then from lowest notes, His
voice
Rose clear, commanding: 'El' Azar! come forth!'
Cried He, imperious. Oh, and in that gloom
Ensued a stir, — a noise of rustled cloths, —
A footfall on the stairway! El' Azar —
The dead man — cometh forth! Like unto one
Who slumbers in his summer-room, and hears
Commingled with deep happy dreams, a tone
He knows and loves call him to play; and leaps
Upon his feet, and girds his coat, and hastes
With Light steps, — laughing — and lids not yet
wide;
So El' Azar! so, half asleep to see,
Dazed, unexpectant; but alert, aware,
My Brother! — stumbling somewhat for his bonds,
And one free hand fumbling the face-cloth back
To spy the Master, — stepped forth lustily
Glowing with glad new life, wholesome, and fair;
The crimson of his lips and of his cheeks
Full-coloured; eyes alight, foot firm, voice strong,
Loud and assured. But we, — all dumb, for fear
And joy and thanks and wonder, — held our breaths,
Not moving, till we heard the Master say:
'Loose him, and let him go! '"

Next, day by day
She told the story of those later days,
How He did pass unto Jerusalem,
Wending to die, because such death should bring
Fruit of His fair life, and high grace for men.
How, spying the proud City, as He rode
Meek, on an ass, with children for His guards,
And glad hosannahs wakening the hills,
He sorrowed for His splendid murderess
Throned on her rock, crowned with the great white

Dome,
And girt with Kedron and the guardian hills;
Sighing: "Jerusalem! Jerusalem!
Slaying the Prophets, stoning those that come
Messengers to thee! If, in this thy day,
Thou hadst but known! — thou, Zion! hadst but heard
The things belonging to thy peace! How oft
I would have gathered all thy children in
As a hen clucks her chickens to her wings;
But thou would'st not! And, now behold thy House
Is left unto thee desolate! "She told
How to that House one last sad while He passed;
Sate in the Temple, saw its goodly Courts,
Its nine gates laid with gold; its corner-stones
Rose-red, and white and black, fetched from afar
For Israel's God, each block a desert-crag
Sculptured to beauty; and the golden grapes
Over the golden doors, each shining bunch
The stature of a man; its cedar-work;
Its alabaster stairs; that purple veil
Soon to be rent, shutting the "Holiest "in;
The Ark, the Cherubim with shielding wings;
The vain, void, Altar whence the God was gone.
For, "seest thou these great buildings?" so He spake,
"One stone upon another doth not stand
Of all its stones which shall not be cast down
In times that come! "And, then — amid His friends —
Told she the sojourning at Bethany;
The last sleep on the breast of Olivet;
The treason of the man of Keriaoth,
Selling for thirty pieces that sweet blood
Which buys our bliss; the sad Last Supper set,
Secret and holy, in the City's midst,
Where He did break them bread, and pour them
wine,
And wash the feet of all the Twelve — even his
Who must betray Him, — his stained with new
dust
Of coming from the house of Caiaphas,
And counting out the shekels. For Love hath
No measure in his magnanimities,
And, "perad venture," Mary said, "even he —
After self-loathing, and Aceldama —
Hath somewhere, by strange grace, some place again,
With bitter heart-pangs purged, near to his Lord;
Who chose him at the first, and at the last
Washed him, well-knowing of the wicked kiss.
For as the sin so is the suffering,
And Judas needs must ache with Jesus' cheek."
Next, she recited how, that last dread night —
Eve of the Cross — He passed, as all men pass,
Into His anguish — to Gethsemane.
"For, it were not to be a man," said she,
"If once, and briefly, and with trailing wings,
Soul did not bid the body fond farewell
At hour when soul comes to the throat, and flits
Glad of past days, and greatly moved to part.
One time must be, in all the lives which live,
When strength sinks into weakness, faith desponds,
And fair hope swoons, and — for a little while —
No star shows where the path winds; not one gleam
From all those promised Angels who have gone,
And know the way, and should be there to make
The Valley of the Shadow safe with hands
Familiar, at first touch, in thickest dark.
He, Sir! "— she said; —" ev'n He; for whom rayed
Worlds
Watched, with unwinking silver eyelashes,
That sad night of their little sister-world;
He, who had twenty myriad Shining Ones
With golden plumes at poise, fluttering to fly
Swift — if it might have been — to wipe His brow
Clear of the bloody sweat, and comfort Him,
And catch Him to His Kingdom — prayed full sore: —
The God consenting while the Mortal shrank —
'Abba! all things are possible with Thee!
Sorrowful is My spirit, unto death!
If it may be, let this Cup pass from Me;
If this Cup may not pass away from Me
Except I drink it, let Thy will be done! '"

And, afterwards, the Treason; — the foul kiss —
"Hail, Master!" — and the tender answer, "Friend!
Betrayest thou Me with kissing? "— torches' glare;
Swords, staves; as if to take a thief by night —
The Hour, and Power, of Darkness. "El' Azar
Saw all," she said; "he was the 'young man 'there
Following for love, wearing that 'linen cloth,'
Whom they did strip and seize." On that, the

Priests,
The Sanhedrim, the Judgment, — (all she told
Heretofore unto Pilate) — Pilate's wrath;
The scourge; the mocking purple cloak; the crown
Jewelled with blood; the path to Golgotha;
The cruel Cross (oh, Tree, which made its wood,
Who planted thee? Did birds nest in thy boughs,
And sunshine light thy leaves?) — the cruel Cross;
The savage rending nails; the scroll; the sponge;
The cry, "Eloi lama sabachthani!" — then,
His death-word, "It is finished," and the death,

And spear-blade deep into His dead side plunged;
And the Centurion, crying: "Verily,
This was a Son of God!"

"Oh! we were fain
For sorrow and for shame" — said Miriam —
"Who stood to see Him die! Never so low
Bowed the bright Sun, stooping to bathe his gold
In whelming waves; never so meek, and lost,
Faded the splendour of the Morning-Star
Before that Morning which it heralded,
As He did humble and abjure Himself —
In moment of arriving majesty —
Consenting on the Cross to hang and die.
Had we not seen — did we not know Heaven's
might
Servant and succour to Him? plumed bands
Of Presences invisible, intent,
Upon His lightest sighing, loyally
To go and come, bearing Him embassage?

Oh, measure what a love, if thou canst mete,
The immortal pity of that soul serene,
Pitiless only to its body, firm
To hold it uncomplaining, patient, still,
Close to the Cross; of one mind with the nails,
With the dull senseless wood — for sake of men,
And great salvation of all flesh to be.
Not summoning once, with one swift sinking thought,
The rescue that had rushed on wings of fire
From North and South and East and West, to aid.
Not suffering once — not when the fever raged
Worst in His veins, and thirst blackened His lips,
And those whom He had come to teach and save
Gave Him no better thanks than bitter gibes —
Not suffering Death, — who waited weepingly
For leave to strike — to hasten one small step
Quicker for Him, than for the thieves who hung
On either hand! All this to wring no word
From Him most innocent and pardoning
Except the tender mandate, sadly sighed
To Mary Mother, wailing at His feet:
And the sick gasp, 'I thirst!' and spirit's spasm,
'Father! dost Thou forsake Me?' and the cry
Of Victory's anguish: 'It is finished!'
"And measure — if the mind can ever mete —
That sorrow of us standing by who saw
Our Master, — Master over Death and Pain,
Lord of all Angels, and all devils — droop
Unhelped; we who so loved Him, helplessly
Gazing far-off — held from His bleeding feet
By Pilate's spears, and guards of Caiaphas,
And Roman soldiers casting lots to share
His sacred vestments: Measure what a pang
Tore us, and mocked our faith, and made our
hopes
Fall, leaf by leaf; like last leaves, when the blast
Of winter strips the vineyard grey and bare!

Nay, but not mine! Truly I tell you, Sir!
I loved Him so! — I worshipped so! I knew
So well in inmost mind He could not die,
And would not die, and was not less than God;
And should make good to all, in His good time,
The meaning, and the means, and mystery;
And be that King they wrote Him on the scroll;
That while mine eyes ran tears too thick, to see
His dear face, and my fingers clenched themselves
Into my palms, as if they were the nails
Piercing His hands; I went not otherwise
Than full-assured it would be well at last.

"Yet, measure — if thy mind can measure this —
How lost we stood, defeated, abject, shamed,
Those Twelve — with Judas one; and all the rest
Fled at Gethsemane — and I; and she
Who bore Him; and the women ministering;
And some poor, few, sad, fearful friends aloof
Afraid to grieve, because of those stern spears;
Shut from the shaking Cross, whispering their
woe
Lest Galilaean country tongues bewray,
And they be known —like Peter — for His sheep.
Only this left of those high-nourished dreams
About the times to follow Galilee
When He should sit upon His Kingdom's throne,
And rule the land, and give to Israel —
The Roman Eagles driven screaming off —
Days of King David's majesty again,
Solomon's splendours — more than Solomon's!
Only this left of larger phantasies
When we looked higher — saw Him judging Earth
At God's right hand; aye! by those pleasant
fields
Of Dalmanutha, and the green sea-shores —
Drunk, like the children of the Bride-chamber,
With His new wine of love — begged for the seats
This side and that side of His Royalty,
Over the heads of Angels. And now this!
For our King's drink the hyssop on the sponge!
For our King's purple the slow-trickling blood!
For our King's courtiers the writhing thieves
This side and that! for our King's Ministers
Those legionaries with the savage spears!
For our King's praises gibes of passers-by!
For our King's throne the cruel torturing Tree!
We — who in those glad days of Galilee
Left all and followed Him, certain and sure
The Angels' song was true, Heaven's joy was come
Visible, lovable, approachable,
In this sweet, well-beloved Son of Man:
That we had seen and heard the Power of God
Made Mercy, made Forgiveness, and made Peace;
And elemental enemies, and Death
Dropping their old ill masks to manifest
All things in all the spheres servants to Him,
Lovers of Man, and secret Ministers: —
We to stand weeping there — His sad, shamed,
Church
The last scorned ruins of the large scheme planned
To take the whole world by the hand of Love,
And make all flesh One Father's family.
Ah, never since tears rolled — since human hearts
Beat quick with hope, to break in black despair,
Lay Love so wingless, Faith so quite forlorn
As that dread day, on guilty Golgotha!"

She paused: — the great drops welling from her
eyes —
But lit behind by such a ray as breaks
Across the April rain, and paints the Bow.

"Yet thou" — she said — "who knowest stars in
Heaven,
Which are not gone because we see them not,
Shalt learn in that dark hour was clearest shown
The eternal lustre of my Lord's sweet Star.

"It was our Sabbath-eve. By set of Sun
Arimathaean Joseph craved and gained
The grace to lay Him in his Sepulchre
Fresh-hewn, where no man ever yet was laid,
Shut in a garden. And did bring Him there
Tenderly taken from the bloody Cross,
Wrapped in fine sindon, and strewn round about
With myrrh and aloes — gifts for burial
From Nakdimon the Rabbi; — as much spice
As should a King's grave sweeten. And they set
A great stone to the entrance of the Tomb.
And I — with one more — watched them set the
stone,
But might not come at Him, to make Him fair,
Because a guard of soldiers kept the place;
Also, it was the Sabbath.

"So night passed;
And all that next slow day; and night, again.

"Then, while the first day of the week was dark,
Alone I wended to His Sepulchre,
Bearing fair water, and the frankincense,
And linen, that my Lord's sweet body sleep
Well, in the rock. And, while my woeful feet
Passed through the gate, and up the paved ascent
Along the Second "Wall, over the Hill,
Into that Garden, hard by Golgotha, —
The morning brightened over Moab's peaks,
Touched the great Temple's dome with crimson
fires,
Lit Ophel and Moriah rosy-red,
Made Olivet all gold, and, on the pools
In Hinnom laid a sudden lance of flame.
And, from the thorn-trees brake the waking-songs
Of little birds; and every palm-tree's top
Was full of doves that cooed, as knowing not
How Love was dead, and Life's dear glory gone,
And World's hope lay there in the Tomb with Him;
Which now I spied; — that hollow in the rock
Under the camphire leaves. Yet, no guards there
To help me roll the stone! nay, and no stone!
It lay apart, leaving the door a-gape,
And through the door, as I might dimly see,
The scattered wrappings of the Burial-night,
Pale gleams amidst the gloom. Not waiting,
then, —
Deeming our treasure taken wickedly —
I sped; and came to Peter, and to John;
And cried: 'Our Lord is stolen from His grave,
And none to tell where He is borne away!'
Thereat, they ran together, came, and saw;
And entered in; and found the linen cloths
Scattered; the rock-bed empty; and, amazed,
Back to their house they went. But I drew nigh
A second time, alone; heart-broken now;
The bright day seeming blackest night to me,
The small birds mockers, and the City's noise —
Waking within the walls — hateful and vain:
Why should Earth wake, the Son of Man asleep?
Or, that great guilty City rise and live,
With this dear Lord, dead, in her stony skirts?
Fled, too, my last fond hope, to lay Him fair,
And kiss His wounded feet, and wash the blood
From His pierced palms, and comb His tangled hair
To comeliness, and leave Him — like a King —
To His forgetful Angels. Weeping hard,

With these thoughts; like to snake-fangs, stinging
me,
My left hand on the stone I laid, and shut
The eager sunshine off with my right hand,
Kneeling, and looking in the Sepulchre.
It was not dark within! I deemed, at first,
A lamp burned there, such radiance mild I saw
Lighting the hewn walls, and the linen-bands;
And in one corner, folded by itself,
The face-cloth. Coming closer, I espied
Two men who sate there, — very watchfully —
One at the head, the other at the foot
Of that stone table where my Lord had lain.
Oh! — I say 'men '— I should have known no men
Had eyes like theirs, shapes so majestical,
Tongues tuned to such a music as the tone
Wherewith they questioned me: — 'Why weepest
thou?'
'Ah, Sir!' I said: 'my Lord is ta'en away,
Nor wot we whither!' and thereat my tears
Blotted all seeing. So, I turned to wipe
The hot drops off: and, look I Another one
Standing behind me, and my foolish eyes
Hard gazing on Him, and not knowing Him!
Indeed, I deemed this was the Gardener
Keeping the Trees and Tomb, so was He flesh;
So living, natural, and made like man.
Albeit, if I had marked— if any ray
Of watchful hope had helped me — such a look,
Such Presence, beautiful and pure; such light
Of loveliest Compassion in His face,
Had told my beating heart and blinded eyes
Who this must be. But I — my brow i' the
dust —
Heard Him say softly: 'Wherefore weepest thou?
Whom seekest thou? 'A little marvelled I —
Still at His foot, too sorrowful to rise, —
He should ask this, — the void grave gaping near,
And He its watchman: yet His accents glad;
Nay, each word sweet with secret resonance
Of joy shut in it; and a tender note
Of lightness, like the gentle raillery
Which lovers use, dissembling happiness.
Nathless, not lifting up my foolish head,
'Sir!' said I, 'if 'tis thou hast borne Him hence,
Tell me where thou hast laid Him. Then will I
Bear Him away I'"

"What answer came to that?"
Fetching deep breath, the Indian asked, —

And she —
Her white arms wide outraught — as if she saw
His feet again to clasp; her true knee bent
As He were there to worship; her great eyes
Shining with glow of fearless, faithful love,
As if, once more, they looked Him in the face,
And drank divinest peace, — replied, elate:
"Ah, Friend! such answer that my sadness turned
To gladness, suddenly as grey is gold
When the Sun springs in glory! such a word
As made my mourning laugh itself to nought
Like a cloud melting to the Blue! such word
As, with more music than Earth ever heard,
Set my swift dancing veins full well aware
Why so the Day dawned, and the City stirred,
And the vast idle world went busy on,
And the birds carolled, and, in palm-tree tops,
The wise doves cooed of love! Oh, a dear word
Spoke first to me, and, after me, to all,
That all may always know He is the Lord,
And Death is dead, and new times come for men;
And Heaven's ways justified, and Christ alive,
Whom we saw die, nailed on the cruel Cross!
For, while I lay there, sobbing, at His feet,
The word He spake — my Lord! my King! my
Christ!
Was my name:
'Mary!'
"If I say the Dead
Catch tone of some such melting tenderness
When first their lovers in the new Life flock
And greet and kiss them, telling them sweet things
Of bliss beyond, and Love crowned Conqueror;
If I should speak of children, dreaming ill,
And then grown 'ware it is the dear safe breast
Of their fond Mother which they fret upon:
If I should liken hopeless mariners
Snatched sudden from black gulfs; or men condemned
Ransomed from chains, and led to marriage-feasts; —
With the swift comfort of that instant change,
All must fall short! No language had I then;
No language have I now! Only I turned
My quick glance upward; saw Him; knew Him!
sprang
Crying: 'Rabboni! — Lord! my Lord! dear Lord!'"

Thereat, within the house in Magdala,
Fell silence, — Mary on her knees at prayer
Lost for a little unto earthly things;
And he, who came so far, and came so late,
To know what setting had the fair white Star
Seen over Bethlehem — clasping dark palms
Across his breast, and humbly bowed to hail
Her, of all women — after one — most blest,
Most honoured, and most honourable; whose love,
Washing her sins away with holy chrism —
More precious than much spikenard, — won hereby
The first word ever spoke from Heaven's own mouth
Plain to Earth's ears, to tell us Death has died,
And Love shall save all that will trust in Him.

"Oh! thou most happy Lady!" — presently
The Indian said: "I praise and worship thee,
Messenger of thy Master to all Lands!-
Surely thy name shall be, in times to come,
Sweet on the lips of all men; and thy sex, —
Thy sisters — lifted into larger grace,
For thy great sake, and for this mighty thing
Done to thy tenderness and constancy —
Laud thee, and joy in thee, who dost make known —
To saintliest souls not less than sinning souls —
The Woman's queenly part in this World's plan!
I do perceive — since Age, which dims the eye,
Opens the inward vision — there shall spread
News of these high 'Good Tidings; 'growing gleams
Of this strange Star we followed to the fold.
I do discern that, forth from this fair Life,
And this meek Death, and thine arisen Christ,
Measureless things are wrought; a Thought-Dawn
born
Which shall not cease to broaden, till its beam
Makes noon of knowledge for a gathered World,
Completing what our Buddha left unsaid;
Carpeting bright his noble Eight-fold Way
With fragrant blooms of all-renouncing love,
And bringing high Nirvana nearer hope,
Easier and plainer! Spake thy living Lord
More than the name? Cam'st thou to touch of
Him?"

Mary replied: "It seems a little thing,
Now, — seest thou, — when so great a thing is told —
That, being a Son of God and Man, He knew
Life's hidden springs, and called the spirit back
At Nain, and after, at Capernaum;
Or stayed the worm at work in Bethany,
Where, for God's glory, He gave back again
The bodily house, quick-mended, to His friend,
To El' Azar, my brother. But, mark well!
Here was the body of the life beyond
That we shall wear when flesh is laid aside;
Which these unworthy eyes did look upon!
No eye shall see it, save by mystery
Making flesh spirit, or the spiritual
Take fleshly shape awhile.

"When I was fain
To fling my arms around His knees, and pour
My hair upon His feet, and eat, eat, eat
His garment's hem with kissing; measuredly
He stayed me, saying: 'Touch Me not! not yet
Am I ascended to My Father! Go!
Speak to My brethren; say that I ascend
Unto My Father, and to yours, — My God,
And your God.'"

"Was He seen again of men?"
The Buddhist prayed.

"Many whiles!" answered she:
"Three times on that First Day, and, afterwards
In His old paths by silver Galilee;
And on the Mountain,— where He met His own,
And made them cheer celestial. Last of all
He showed in full midst of Jerusalem,
Amongst th' Eleven, — nail-marks on hands and feet
Rose-red, and spear-gash scarring the white side:
And ate of fish and honey from their board;
Then blessed, and led them forth to Olivet;
And passed — as if, they said, a waiting cloud
Received Him out of sight."

"Centurion!"
The Indian cried: — "set there to see Him die: —
Truly the 'Son of God!'"

Peace beginning to be,
Deep as the sleep of the sea,
When the stars their faces glass
In its blue tranquillity:
Hearts of men upon Earth,
Never once still from their Birth,
To rest as the wild waters rest,
With the colours of Heaven on their breast!
Love, which is sunlight of peace,
Age by age to increase,
Till Angers and Hatreds are dead,
And Sorrow and Death shall cease:
"Peace on Earth and Goodwill!"
Souls that are gentle and still
Hear the first music of this
Far-off, infinite bliss!