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Show RESURRECTION. There close your oyes, poor eyes 'that wept for mo! Pillow your weary head upon my arm. You need "not clutch me so, I will not flee; Here am I bound by no mere carnal charm. r At last I am not blind, for I can see Through your mere flesh as only spirit can; I feel at last the world-old tragedy, The sacrifice of woman unto man. In that far time when my first father sought To cool the strange made fever in his veins, Seeing howfair the creature he had bought With straining sinews and wild battle pains; Then was this moment of your anguish gown, And you have reaped but do not understand. How frail and thin your blue-veined hands have ' grown, How trustingly they clutch my guilty hand! The story of the world is in your face; I gaze upon it, hearing through dead years The wailing of the women of the race, The melancholy fall of many tears. l In many a Garden of Gethsemane, Sweet with strange odors, redolent of bliss, Again is played the human tragedy -With Judas waiting in the dark to kiss. 1 Not only upon Calvary has died The patient tortured Christ misunderstood; Over and over is He crucified Wherever man besmirches womanhood. I who have laughed too long at sacred things, Who felt no god about me in the gloom, Now hear a Something mystical that sings Sweeter than love, yet terrible as doom. In your frail face I see a glory grow That smites me, guilty, like a burning rod ! I kneel before you, suppliant, and know That your thin hands may lead me unto God! John G. Niehardt. |