I Thank Thee, boundless Giver, That the thoughts Thou givest flow In sounds that like a river All through the darkness go.

And though few should swell the pleasure, By sharing this my wine, My heart will clasp its treasure, This secret gift of Thine.

My heart the joy inherits, And will oft be sung to rest; And some wandering hoping spirits May listen and be blest.

For the sound may break the hours In a dark and gloomy mood, As the wind breaks up the bowers Of the brooding sunless wood.

For every sound of gladness Is a prophet-wind that tells Of a summer without sadness, And a love without farewells; And a heart that hath no ailing, And an eye that is not dim, And a faith that without failing Shall be complete in Him.

And when my heart is mourning, The songs it lately gave, Back to their fount returning, Make sweet the bitter wave; And forth a new stream floweth, In sunshine winding fair; And through the dark wood goeth Glad laughter on the air.

For the heart of man that waketh, Yet hath not ceased to dream, Is the only fount that maketh The sweet and bitter stream.

But the sweet will still be flowing When the bitter stream is dry, And glad music only going On the breezes of the sky.

I thank Thee, boundless Giver, That the thoughts Thou givest flow In sounds that like a river All through the darkness go.

And though few should swell the pleasure By sharing this my wine, My heart will clasp its treasure, This secret gift of Thine.

THE GOSPEL WOMEN.

I.

THE MOTHER MARY.

1.

Mary, to thee the heart was given For infant hand to hold, Thus clasping, an eternal heaven, The great earth in its fold.

He seized the world with tender might, By making thee his own; Thee, lowly queen, whose heavenly height Was to thyself unknown.

He came, all helpless, to thy power, For warmth, and love, and birth; In thy embraces, every hour, He grew into the earth.

And thine the grief, O mother high, Which all thy sisters share, Who keep the gate betwixt the sky And this our lower air;

And unshared sorrows, gathering slow; New thoughts within thy heart, Which through thee like a sword will go, And make thee mourn apart.

For, if a woman bore a son That was of angel brood, Who lifted wings ere day was done, And soared from where he stood;

Strange grief would fill each mother-moan, Wild longing, dim, and sore: "My child! my child! he is my own, And yet is mine no more!"

And thou, O Mary, years on years, From child-birth to the cross, Wast filled with yearnings, filled with fears, Keen sense of love and loss.

His childish thoughts outsoared thy reach; His childish tenderness Had deeper springs than act or speech To eye or ear express.

Strange pangs await thee, mother mild!

A sorer travail-pain, Before the spirit of thy child Is born in thee again.

And thou wilt still forbode and dread, And loss be still thy fear, Till form be gone, and, in its stead, The very self appear.

For, when thy Son hath reached his goal, His own obedient choice, Him thou wilt know within thy soul, And in his joy rejoice.

2.

Ah, there He stands! With wondering face Old men surround the boy; The solemn looks, the awful place, Restrain the mother's joy.

In sweet reproach her joy is hid; Her trembling voice is low, Less like the chiding than the chid: "How couldst Thou leave us so?"

Ah, mother! will thy heart mistake, Depressed by rising fear, The answering words that gently break The silence of thine ear?

"Why sought ye me? Did ye not know My father's work I do?"

Mother, if He that work forego, Not long He cares for you.

"Why sought ye me?" Ah, mother dear!

The gulf already opes, That soon will keep thee to thy fear, And part thee from thy hopes.

A greater work He hath to do, Than they can understand; And therefore mourn the loving few, With tears throughout the land.

3.

The Lord of life beside them rests; They quaff the merry wine; They do not know, those wedding guests, The present power divine.

Believe, on such a group He smiled, Though He might sigh the while; Believe not, sweet-souled Mary's child Was born without a smile.

He saw the pitchers high upturned, The last red drops to pour; His mother's cheek with triumph burned, And expectation wore.

He knew the prayer her bosom housed, He read it in her eyes.

Her hopes in Him sad thoughts have roused, Before her words arise.

"They have no wine," the mother said, And ceased while scarce begun; Her eyes went on, "Lift up thy head, Show what Thou art, my Son!"

A vision rose before his eyes, The cross, the early tomb, The people's rage, the darkened skies, His unavoided doom.

"Ah, woman-heart! what end is set Common to thee and me?

My hour of honour is not yet,-- 'Twill come too soon for thee."

And yet his eyes so sweetly shined, His voice so gentle grew, The mother knew the answer kind-- "Whate'er He sayeth, do."

The little feast more joyous grew, Fast flowed the grapes divine; Though then, as now, not many knew Who made the water wine.

4.

"He is beside himself," they said; His days, so lonely spent, Him from the well-known path have led In which our fathers went."