She hath done what she could; she is come
aforehand to anoint My body to the burying.
Mark 14:8
'Twas love both pure and tender,
As Jesus sat at meat,
Which braved the heartless critics
With true devotion sweet.
The precious, costly ointment
She lavished on His head
Was treasured for the living,
While others-for the dead.
No kinder words are spoken
Than those around the tomb,
Amassed with floral tributes
Of ev'ry hue and bloom.
Friends pay respect with rev'rence
As eulogies are said,
Expressing deep condolence
In mem'ry of the dead.
Unheard the words well-spoken,
To sleeping ones unblest;
Sweet flowers have no perfume
For those who quietly rest.
Kind tokens of affection
Soon vanish like a dream,
With all the costly beauty
In realms of death unseen.
O break that box of ointment,
Reserved intact for time,
And let its pleasant fragrance
Make present lives sublime.
Then gently smooth life's pillow
To rest the weary head;
'Tis now they need your comfort--
The living, not the dead!
Speak now that word of kindness
To lift a heart oppressed!
'Tis worth more than ten thousand
'Neath shades of death expressed.
Kind acts, like simple posies,
Live on and never fade;
More scented than the roses
Upon the casket laid.
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