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W. Garrett Horder, comp. The Poets’ Bible: New Testament. 1895.


George MacDonald (1824–1905)

NOT now the living words are poured

Into her single heart;

For many guests are at the board,

And many tongues take part.

With sacred foot, refrained and slow,

With daring, trembling tread,

She comes, with worship bending low

Behind the godlike head.

The costly chrism, in snowy stone,

A gracious odour sends.

Her little hoard, so slowly grown,

In one full act she spends.

She breaks the box, the honoured thing!

And down its riches pour;

Her priestly hands anoint her king,

To reign for evermore.

With murmur and nod, they called it waste:

Their love they could endure;

Hers ached a prisoner in her breast,

And she forgot the poor.

She meant it for his coming state

He took it for his doom.

The other women were too late,

For he had left the tomb.