Slow rising to his manly height,
  Fronting the eager eyes,
The righteous Judge lifts up his might,
  The solemn voice replies: 

(What, woman! does He speak for thee? 
  For thee the silence stir?)
“Let him who from this sin is free,
  Cast the first stone at her!”

Upon the death-stained, ashy face,
  The kindling blushes glow: 
No greater wonder sure had place
  When Lazarus forth did go!

Astonished, hopeful, growing sad,
  The wide-fixed eyes arose;
She saw the one true friend she had,
  Who loves her though He knows.

Sick womanhood awakes and cries,
  With voiceless wail replete. 
She looks no more; her softening eyes
  Drop big drops at her feet.

He stoops.  In every charnel breast
  Dead conscience rises slow. 
They, dumb before the awful guest,
  Turn one by one, and go.

They are alone.  The silence dread
  Closes and deepens round. 
Her heart is full, her pride is dead;
  No place for fear is found.

Hath He not spoken on her side? 
  Those cruel men withstood? 
Even her shame she would not hide—­
  Ah! now she will be good.

He rises.  They are gone.  But, lo! 
  She standeth as before. 
“Neither do I condemn thee; go,
  And sin not any more.”

She turned and went.  The veil of tears
  Fell over what had been;
Her childhood’s dawning heaven appears,
  And kindness makes her clean.

And all the way, the veil of tears
  Flows from each drooping lid;
No face she sees, no voice she hears,
  Till in her chamber hid.

And then returns one voice, one face,
  A presence henceforth sure;
The living glory of the place,
  To keep that chamber pure.

Ah, Lord! with all our faults we come,—­
  With love that fails to ill;
With Thee are our accusers dumb,
  With Thee our passions still.

Ah! more than father’s holy grace
  Thy lips and brow afford;
For more than mother’s tender face
  We come to Thee, O Lord!

XIV.

MARTHA.

With joyful pride her heart is great: 
  Her house, in all the land,
Holds Him who conies, foretold by fate,
  With prophet-voice and hand.

True, he is poor and lowly born: 
  Her woman-soul is proud
To know and hail the coming morn
  Before the eyeless crowd.

At her poor table will He eat? 
  He shall be served there
With honour and devotion meet
  For any king that were.

’T is all she can; she does not fail;
  Her holy place is his: 
The place within the purple veil
  In the great temple is.

But many crosses she must bear,
  Straight plans are sideways bent;
Do all she can, things will not wear
  The form of her intent.