He hath come from fair Gennesaret,
And His fame hath gone before.
Where Tire on her rocky throne is set,
To the far Sidonian shore.
And one entreats Him whose faith is bold,
To draw from His stores of grace;
No sheep is she of His Jewish fold,
No child of His chosen race.
But she surely proves who knows Him best,
Herself, or His own, so blind;
Though cold. His words, He would seek to test
The faith that can pierce behind.
A mother's love in her heart is strong;
And He, who is fain to bless
The stricken forms that around Him throng,
Are His love and His pity less?
The dogs '-but so, it were well to be
A dog on His bounty thrown-
' The dogs eat crumbs,' and so good is He,
To the least His grace makes known.
O tender heart, that must break with grief!
Can He bear another's woe?
Or speak the word that can give relief,
And His mercy not o'erflow?
He brings us down in the dust indeed,
To feel and to own our sin;
But He will not break the heart in its need,
For He seeks our love to win.
Oh blest are the souls to Him that cling,
Whatever would turn them back!
A sense of their utter need who bring,
His grace they shall never lack.
And dear to Him are the hearts that hold
His love as the sweetest, best;
Who thirst for Him-as to her of old-
He granteth them their request.
M. A. W.