With joyful pride her heart is high: <br />Her humble house doth hold <br />The man her nation's prophecy <br />Long ages hath foretold! <br /> <br />Poor, is he? Yes, and lowly born: <br />Her woman-soul is proud <br />To know and hail the coming morn <br />Before the eyeless crowd. <br /> <br />At her poor table will he eat? <br />He shall be served there <br />With honour and devotion meet <br />For any king that were! <br /> <br />'Tis all she can; she does her part, <br />Profuse in sacrifice; <br />Nor dreams that in her unknown heart <br />A better offering lies. <br /> <br />But many crosses she must bear; <br />Her plans are turned and bent; <br />Do what she can, things will not wear <br />The form of her intent. <br /> <br />With idle hands and drooping lid, <br />See Mary sit at rest! <br />Shameful it was her sister did <br />No service for their guest! <br /> <br />Dear Martha, one day Mary's lot <br />Must rule thy hands and eyes; <br />Thou, all thy household cares forgot, <br />Must sit as idly wise! <br /> <br />But once more first she set her word <br />To bar her master's ways, <br />Crying, 'By this he stinketh, Lord, <br />He hath been dead four days!' <br /> <br />Her housewife-soul her brother dear <br />Would fetter where he lies! <br />Ah, did her buried best then hear, <br />And with the dead man rise?<br /><br />George MacDonald<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/martha-7/
