She Hath Done What She Could

THE Feast was spread at Simon’s house, and as
they sat at meat,
A woman came and silent stood within the open
door— jar1
Close pressed against her throbbing heart an alabaster
box
Of purest spikenard, costly, rare, she held. With modest fear,
She dreaded to attract the curious gaze of those
within,
And yet her well-beloved Friend was there, her
Master, Lord.
With wondrous intuition she divined that this might
be
Her last, her only opportunity to show her love;
She thought of all that He had done for her, the
holy hours
She spent enraptured at His feet, unmindful of all
else,
If only she might hear those words of Truth, those
words of Life.
She thought of that dark hour when Lazarus lay
within the tomb
And how He turned her night to day, her weeping
into joy.
Her fair face flushed, with deepening gratitude her
pure eyes shone;
With swift, light step she crossed the crowded room.
She bravely met
Those questioning eyes (for Love will find its way
through paths where lions
Fear to tread); with trembling hands she broke the
seal and poured
The precious contents of the box upon her Savior’s
feet,
And all the house was filled with fragrance wonderful
and sweet.
She could not speak, her heart’s devotion was too
deep, her tears
Fell softly, while she took her chiefest ornament, her
long
And silken hair and wiped His sacred feet,—when
suddenly
A rude voice broke the golden silence with, “What
waste! this might
Have sold for much, to feed the poor!” She lower
bent her head—
To her it seemed so mean a gift for love so great to
make!
Again a voice re-echoed through the room, her
blessed Lord’s,
(He half arose and gently laid His hand upon her
hair)—
And how it thrilled her fainting heart to hear Him
sweetly say,
“Rebuke her not, for she hath wrought a good work,
what she could;
Aforehand, to anoint Me for my burying, she hath
come,
and this her deed of love throughout the ages shall
be told!”

******

How oft since first I read the story of this saint of old,
My own poor heart hath burned with fervent, longing,
deep desire,
That I might thus have ministered unto my Lord and
King—
“The chiefest of ten thousand, altogether lovely One.”
And now, to learn—oh! precious thought, ’tis not
too late, I still
May pour Love’s priceless ointment on “the members”
of His Feet!
Dear Lord, I pray, oh! help me break with sacrificial
hand
The seal of Self, and pour the pent-up odors of my
heart
Upon Thy “Feet!” Oh! Let me spend my days and
nights in toil,
That I, perchance, may save from needless wandering,
and help
To keep them in the narrow way that leads to light
and life.
Oh! let me lay within their trembling hands a rose of
love,
A lily’s pure and holy inspiration on their breast!
Dear Master, let me kneel with them in dark
Gethsemane;
Oh! help me boldly stand and meekly bear the scoffs
and jeers
Of cruel, mocking tongues! Oh! may I count no
cost, e’en life
Itself, too great to serve, to bless, to comfort Thy
dear “Feet,”
And when the last drop of my heart’s devotion hath
been shed,
Oh, may I hear Thy sweet voice say, “She hath done
what she could!”

Daily Heavenly Manna
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