Mary at the Feet of Christ

She stood at Jesus’ feet,
  And bathed them with her tears,
While o’er her spirit surg’d
  The guilt and shame of years.

Though Simon saw the grief
  Upon the fair young face,
The stern man coldly thought
  For her this is no place.

Her feet have turned aside
  From paths of truth and right,
If Christ a prophet be
  He’ll spurn her from his sight.

And silently he watched
  The child of sin and care,
Uncoil upon Christ’s feet
  Her wealth of raven hair.

O Life! she sadly thought,
  I know thy bane and blight,
And yet I fain would find
  The path of peace and right.

I’ve seen the leper cleansed,
  I’ve seen the sick made whole,
But mine’s a deeper wound⁠—
  It eats into the soul.

And men have trampled down
  The beauty once their prize,
While women pass me by
  With cold, averted eyes.

But now a hope of peace
  Steals o’er my weary breast,
And from these lips of love
  There comes a sense of rest.

The tender, loving Christ
  Gazed on her tearful eyes,
Then saw on Simon’s face
  A look of cold surprise.

“Simon,” the Saviour said,
  “Thou wast to me remiss,
I came thy guest, but thou
  Didst give no welcome kiss.

“Thou broughtest from thy fount
  No water cool and sweet,
But she, with many tears,
  Hath bent and kissed my feet.

“Thou pouredst on my head
  No oil with kindly care,
But she anoints my feet,
  And wipes them with her hair.

“I know her steps have strayed,
  Her sins they many be,
But she with love hath bound
  Her erring heart to me.”

How sweetly fell his words
  Upon her bruised heart,
When, like a ghastly train,
  She felt her sins depart.

What music heard on earth,
  Or rapture moving heaven
Were like those precious words⁠—
  “Thy sins are all forgiven!”