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Poem by George MacDonald
With wandering eyes and aimless zeal, She hither, thither, goes; Her speech, her motions, all reveal A mind without repose. She climbs the hills, she haunts the sea, By madness tortured, driven; One hour's forgetfulness would be A gift from very heaven! She slumbers into new distress; The night is worse than day: Exulting in her helplessness, Hell's dogs yet louder bay. The demons blast her to and fro; She has no quiet place, Enough a woman still, to know A haunting dim disgrace. A human touch! a pang of death! And in a low delight Thou liest, waiting for new breath. For morning out of night. Thou risest up: the earth is fair, The wind is cool; thou art free! Is it a dream of hell's despair Dissolves in ecstasy? That man did touch thee! Eyes divine Make sunrise in thy soul; Thou seest love in order shine:— His health hath made thee whole! Thou, sharing in the awful doom, Didst help thy Lord to die; Then, weeping o'er his empty tomb, Didst hear him Mary cry. He stands in haste; he cannot stop; Home to his God he fares: "Go tell my brothers I go up To my Father, mine and theirs." Run, Mary! lift thy heavenly voice; Cry, cry, and heed not how; Make all the new-risen world rejoice— Its first apostle thou! What if old tales of thee have lied, Or truth have told, thou art All-safe with him, whate'er betide— Dwell'st with him in God's heart!
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