No rest, no peace, for the wandering feet
For when the Rubicon once was crost,
Angels shrieked over her: "Lost! lost
lost I"
Out in the street stands the Magdalene,
With her race averted Lncieau: im
xinclean !"
And her gay-clad sisters go sweeping by
Under tlie arch of the Winter sky
Sisters! No! she had stumbled, fell,
Theirs is the Heaven, hers the Hell,
Do you think they would soil one trailing
skirt
To lift up this fallen one from the dirt?
No ! for the head is scornfully tost.
And they whisper each other : "Lost ! lost
lost !
Only a woman more or less
To curse the land she was born to bless
Only a woman sunk in shame.
Cursing her life and her Maker's name.
Onlv a woman Got! above !
Is there room for such in Thy boundless
love?
Sold to a life of deathless pain
For the greed of lut, or the greed of gain
Treading a path with anguish crost
Is this soul forever lost, lost, lost ?
Ist ! lost ! No soul is lost !
Though the chasm be wide, it is bridget
a crost.
And spanned by His infinite love and care
no needs the uttered or silent prayer ;
And the very skiits of this Magdalene,
O scornful sister ! may be more clean
In the eyes All-seeing although you de
ride
Than yours, so stained with unchristian
pride ;
Her draggled soul is a pearl of cost.
