(From the French)
Silently the hours were passing,
As she sat at Jesus’ feet;
One blest voice all else surpassing;
Self is hushed in that retreat.
Wondrous place of lowly nearness
Mary chose with Him alone;
Lord, may we too know its sweetness,
Take her place to be our own.
At Thy feet, when grief’s (dark shadow
O’er our desert pathway lies,
We shall find Thee in the sorrow,
Thou wilt wipe the weeping eyes.
Jesus, Lord, though man despise Thee,
We would pour upon Thy feet
All the wealth of hearts that prize Thee,
Precious ointment, pure and sweet.
One there was, when man betrayed
Thee, Heaven records it to her fame—
Who, for death, with cost arrayed Thee,
Loved Thee in Thy garb of shame.
Saviour, every crown in glory
Will be cast before Thy feet—
Feet that tell of Calvary’s story,
Tale of love divinely sweet.
Till that day, oh, keep us near Thee!
We would at Thy feet abide,
Whilst our voices rise to praise Thee,
Son of God, once crucified.