The Alabaster Box

And, who is she that, bearing
The Alabaster Box,
Is thus, neglected, wearing
Her long and silken locks?

Her form is fair, but o'er her
A shade of grief is cast,
That speaks of wo before her,
Or bitterness that's past.

Oh! whither is she going?
And what is it to seek,
With sorrow's fountains flowing
On either pallid cheek?

Behold! her steps are tending
To him who sits at meat.
'T is Mary! see her bending
To weep at Jesus' feet!

And while her tears bestrew them,
As pearls that scatter there,
Her lips she presses to them,
And wipes them with her hair.

And, of a heart that's broken
For sin that she forsakes,
She gives the precious token—
The alabaster breaks.

From ointment now, that's gushing
To pour on Jesus' head,
Sweet odors forth are rushing,
And o'er the dwelling spread.

But they, who see her spilling
The spikenard fresh and pure,
Rebuke her, as unwilling
To sell it for the poor.

While he, whose eye possesses
The hidden, inmost thought,
Pronounces good, and blesses
The work by Mary wrought.

He sees her heart is riven,
And bids her sorrow cease.
To them, he says, "forgiven,
She shall depart in peace.

"The poor are with you ever!
For them your treasures save.
But she, before we sever,
Anoints me for the grave!"

Fair penitent! when breaking
For thee, the stony tomb,
With sweeter odors waking,
Thy spirit he'll perfume!