Classic Poem

Jesus is coming! Martha

Then we shall do well
Properly to prepare the disused room
Which, though it long has lain in idleness,
I always said we needed. Mary

Oh Martha, do you think he'll stay the night?
Lazarus is bringing him, and he loves Lazarus
Better than you or me. Do, Martha, once,
Just once persuade our brother to invite him. Martha

Mary, you know how very poor we are:
You know there's not a place where he could sleep:
You know . . . . Mary

Could he not have my room?
Oh Martha, think. All my remaining life
The couch, the lamp, the very walls would be
Fragrant of him; my little sparing room
Would henceforth glow a temple of delight
Where I could easier pray for him and urge
The heart of God to send the world its joy,
And crown his glorious work with that success
He seems so much to doubt. Martha

Child, do you think I love him less than you
Because I urge the impossibility
Of more than merest entertainment here?
What hospitality can we afford
Who owe for corn and wine, and the poll tax,
Which still unpaid when Sabbath comes again
Finds us as homeless as the Lord himself? Mary

Well, we could sell the sheep, and there's that silk
Robe I have never worn. I'd love to sell it,
Though I should go in rags for a whole year,
If only I could feel he really came
And shone in our dark house like a bright star
One whole night long. Martha

Two hours perhaps: two hours at the very most,
More than would otherwise be given to us,
Should we enjoy his honoured company.
Or think you he is profligate with time,
Even as you, and would stay sitting here
The whole night long to talk with a pair of girls
When there are crowds to hang upon his words
When daylight comes? Mary

Would it be naught to you he should sleep here? Martha

I know not what you mean. Surely if we sleep,
We sleep, and little matters it to us
Whether a beggar or a prophet rest
'Neath the same roof. Mary

I think it matters much. . . . I don't know why. Martha

Nor I, nor any one. Mary, let's see
We are not foolish in our love for him.
It ill becomes those who would do him honour
To proffer him the love that dotes and weeps,
That treads upon his garments when he walks,
Looks for his gaze, and moons the hours away
When he is absent. His gentle mother —
Have you not heard? — early gave him such love;
And what said he of it? " Knowest thou not
That I must be about my Father's business? "
If to his mother he should use such words
Of clear rebuke, what would he say to us?
Nay, Mary, we must serve, and win his heart
To us by careful furtherance of his ends;
For every prophet of the most high God
Loves first his work, then afterward all those
Who love that work as the very flower of himself. Mary

I know not how he loves, I only know
I love him better than his work; and yet
That's more to me than aught — himself beside. Martha

Ah, child, you boast your love, but 'tis a crude
Passion of youth most like to selfishness
Which clasps its heart's desire thus feverishly.
You separate him and his work. They are one,
And if between them you should make divorce
You give to neither. Mary, the love he needs
Is the pure flower of deep self-sacrifice
That counts nothing its own, so it may serve
Its lord with heart unsoiled by thought of self.
Come. Let's prepare the room. Here's instance too.
We waste the hours talking about our love
And he will come and find nothing made ready
As for a guest. Mary

Oh, must we ask him to that cold, bare place?
I'd rather he should use our common room. Martha
Why? Mary

I scarce know. 'Twould seem more homely p'raps. Martha

Well, you must give him what you will: for me
The best seems all too poor for such an one, Mary

The best. What is the best? Service is good,
But is there nothing better?
Yes, for an ass gives more.
Then must it ever be that man expects
Less from his love than from the humblest beast?
Or must he love the labour of his hands
Better than flesh and blood? Can that be true?
I wonder, must a simple woman's love
Be always different from a man's: different in kind,
In hope, in purpose, singleness and end?
Must women love, merely to bear a babe,
And men in hunger, or for mere furthering
Of other ends than love's? Oh, 'tis not so!
I know it, know it, know it in my heart;
For love's a girdle God puts round the earth
Like a great ring, wedding itself to Him;
It has no end, but when we have given all
Is procreant and creative, not alone
In the new spirit dowered with mortal life,
But with the great inrush of living joy
That fills the tiniest inlets of our being
When we can give our all: finding in giving
Capacity for receiving grow in us
Till, even as God, we embrace the world itself.

He must know that. Surely he must know that.
Oh, if I could but know he knew it too
Methinks the very knowledge would suffice
This earthly life. Martha will never know.
She loves him with her best — I with my all.
But even now her love takes pains for him
While I sit idling. I will go and help.