The Miracle and Other Poems by Virna Sheard
page 44 of 81 (54%)
page 44 of 81 (54%)
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Outcast was she from what Life holdeth dear;
Banished from joy that other souls might win; And from the dark beyond she turned with fear, Being so branded by the mark of sin. Yet when at last she raised her troubled face, Haunted by sorrow, whitened by alarms, Mary leaned down from out the pictured place, And laid the little Christ within her arms. Rosy and warm she held Him to her heart, She--the abandoned one--the thing apart. SAINTS The Saints of Thy great Church, 0 Christ, How vast their numbers be-- On holy page and ancient scroll Their blessed names we see, And from the painted window panes They smile eternally. Rope-girdled monk, and pallid maid, And men who for Thy cross Fought with the Saracen of old, Counting their lives no loss-- Martyrs who rose through golden flames, |
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