Maid of maidens, all excelling! 
  Be not bitter, me repelling;
    Make thou me a mourner too;
  Make me bear about Christ’s dying,
  Share his passion, shame defying;
    All his wounds in me renew.

  Wound for wound be there created;
  With the cross intoxicated
    For thy Son’s dear sake, I pray—­
  May I, fired with pure affection,
  Virgin, have through thee protection
    In the solemn Judgment Day.

  Let me by the cross be warded,
  By the death of Christ be guarded,
    Nourished by divine supplies. 
  When the body death hath riven,
  Grant that to the soul be given
    Glories bright of Paradise.

From the Latin of FRA JACOPONE.

Translation of ABRAHAM COLES.

* * * * *

MYRRH-BEARERS.[A]

  Three women crept at break of day
  A-grope along the shadowy way
  Where Joseph’s tomb and garden lay.

  With blanch of woe each face was white,
  As the gray Orient’s waxing light
  Brought back upon their awe-struck sight

  The sixth-day scene of anguish.  Fast
  The starkly standing cross they passed,
  And, breathless, neared the gate at last.

  Each on her throbbing bosom bore
  A burden of such fragrant store
  As never there had lain before.

  Spices, the purest, richest, best,
  That e’er the musky East possessed,
  From Ind to Araby-the-Blest,

  Had they with sorrow-riven hearts
  Searched all Jerusalem’s costliest marts
  In quest of,—­nards whose pungent arts

  Should the dead sepulchre imbue
  With vital odors through and through: 
  ’T was all their love had leave to do!

  Christ did not need their gifts; and yet
  Did either Mary once regret
  Her offering?  Did Salome fret

  Over the unused aloes?  Nay! 
  They counted not as waste, that day,
  What they had brought their Lord.  The way

  Home seemed the path to heaven.  They bare,
  Thenceforth, about the robes they ware
  The clinging perfume everywhere.

  So, ministering as erst did these,
  Go women forth by twos and threes
  (Unmindful of their morning ease),

  Through tragic darkness, murk and dim,
  Where’er they see the faintest rim,
  Of promise,—­all for sake of him

  Who rose from Joseph’s tomb.  They hold
  It just such joy as those of old,
  To tell the tale the Marys told.

  Myrrh-bearers still,—­at home, abroad,
  What paths have holy women trod,
  Burdened with votive gifts for God,—­

  Rare gifts whose chiefest worth was priced
  By this one thought, that all sufficed: 
  Their spices had been bruised for Christ!

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.

[Footnote A:  Myrophores, a name given to the Marys, in Greek Christian art.]