Mary Magdalene
How should we follow Jesus Those spiritually mature? To inherit eternity's uses, Whose example should allure?
You'll say—the Apostles' way, Who walked beside His feet, And it seems so clear, I'd say, One path to truth complete.
And those who founded churches— Sentries at their post, Their whole lives they searched In service to their Host!
"You, brothers, follow me," thus said The Paul with earnest voice,— "As I serve the Creator's thread, By strength and by choice."
And in this truth eternal No other can compare, A doctrine so infernal— To Jesus everywhere!
But I wished to look upon One woman, I confess, How the Savior showed upon One soul in such distress.
Satan mocked and jeered at her, Not hiding his delight, She was doomed—no offer Could free her from the blight.
Through chains of hellish regime Without respite or rest, The Lord heard the darkest scream Of Mary, so oppressed.
He heard and liberated, Cast out the evil seven, And grace He demonstrated On this woman, giving heaven.
So life of the redeemed one flowed In channels running new— She served God on every road, With passion, tried and true.
And though her flesh might suffer In Palestine's hot sun, Wherever the Lord did offer, Behind Him—always one!
Her love—to give what she could spare, Her longings and her care— And why should we not take our share In this example rare.
She stayed with Him until the end, His final, darkest hour, When at the Cross she'd stand and bend In anguish and in power.
And after death—with Him as well! In sorrow, grief, and loss, She went through Jerusalem's bell, To buy oils for the Cross.
And spite the shadow of death's hand, Her shattered nerves and fears, At dawn, in morning's light so grand, She came—first of all seers.
The stone was rolled away, the tomb Lay empty, dark, and bare, Jesus was not in that room! With trembling, fright, and care.
She ran back, tossing, turning, To tell the faithful band, Then hastened with such yearning, A gardener she'd command.
She begged him to release the dead, Not knowing who he was, When suddenly these words were said By one who held her cause.
And midst the anguish and the pain There sounded accents dear, As only one who was slain Could speak: "Maria! Here!"
How strong in love you were, O she! And so the Dead One's face To you, in misery, Appeared as Resurrection's grace!
Now let us gaze upon our own, Accustomed to our rest, What songs have we sown? What dreams fill up our breast?
We often trust in words alone And say that love runs deep, But it is shown in deeds, well-known, When we complain and weep.
We do not keep, do not give thanks For miracles of grace, As though we'd never left the ranks Of death and dark disgrace!
Yet He, Arisen, calls to us, Indulged, at liberty, To march through darkness, marvelous, To save humanity.
And not with words of love alone To heal the wounded heart, But let them come to Christ's own throne, As Mary played her part.
How should we follow Jesus Those spiritually mature? To inherit eternity's uses, Whose example should allure?
Take not from apostles' ways, But from a woman simple, plain, Her walking, without word or praise— That is the living strain!