She brought her box of alabaster;
The precious spikenard filled the room
With honor worthy of the Master,
A costly, rare, and rich perfume.
Her tears for sin fell hot and thickly
On his dear feet, outstretched and bare;
Unconscious how, she wiped them quickly
With the long ringlets of her hair.
And richly fall those raven tresses
Adown her cheek, like willow leaves,
As stooping still, with fond caresses,
She plies her task of love, and grieves.
Oh may we thus, like loving Mary,
Ever our choicest offerings bring,
Nor grudging of our toil, nor chary
Of costly service to our King.
Methinks I hear from Christian lowly
Some hallowed voice at evening rise,
Or quiet morn, or in the holy
Unclouded calm of Sabbath skies;
I bring my box of alabaster,
Of earthly loves I break the shrine,
And pour affections, purer, vaster,
On that dear head, those feet of thine.
The joys I prized, the hopes I cherished,
The fairest flowers my fancy wove,
Behold my fondest idols perished,
Receive the incense of my love!
What though the scornful world, deriding,
Such waste of love, of service, fears?
Still let me pour, through taunt and chiding,
The rich libation of my tears.
I bring my box of alabaster;
Accepted let the offering rise!
So grateful tears shall flow the faster,
In founts of gladness from mine eyes!
--C. L. Ford.
Not I but Christ be honored, loved, exalted,
Not I but Christ be seen, be known, be heard,
Not I but Christ in every look and action,
Not I but Christ in every thought and word.