Monday, March 25, 2024

Poem: “The Box of Ointment” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (British, 1809-1892)

 Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,

Nor other thought her mind admits

But, he was dead, and there he sits,

Anh he that brought him back is there.

 

Then one deep love doth supersede

All other, when her ardent gaze 

Roves from the living brother’s face,

And rests upon the Life indeed.

 

All subtle thought, all curious fears,

Borne down by gladness so complete,

She bows, she bathes the Savior’s feet

With costly spikenard and with tears.

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