The Alabaster Box

The spikenard was not wasted;--
All down the tale of years,
The fragrance of that broken alabaster
Still clings to Mary's memory,
As clung its perfume sweet unto her Master.

Not less than Martha,
Mary served her Lord,
Although she but sat worshipping,
While Martha spread the board.

They also minister to Christ,
And render noblest duty,
Whose sweet hands touch life's common rounds
To Fragrance and to Beauty.

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

William Arthur Dunkerley, better known by his pen name John Oxenham, was an English journalist, novelist, and poet. He was a prolific writer in the early 20th century, producing a wide range of literary works including poetry, hymns, and novels. His works often reflected Christian themes and were popular during his time. Dunkerley also contributed to the establishment of the Boys' Brigade, a notable youth organization in the UK. His legacy includes a significant contribution to both literature and social causes.

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Comfort Ye!

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

Bed-Rock

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

The Golden Rose

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

Bring Us The Light

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

English

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An Inscription

Precious the box that Mary brake
Of spikenard for her Master's sake,
But ah! it held nought half so dear
As the sweet dust that whitens here.
The greater wonder who shall say:
To make so white a soul of clay,
From clay to win a face so fair,
Those strange great eyes, that sunlit hair
A-ripple o'er her witty brain, -
Or turn all back to dust again.

Who knows - but, in some happy hour,
The God whose strange alchemic power
Wrought her of dust, again may turn
To woman this immortal urn.

Richard Le Gallienne

Mary

She brought her alabaster flask
Well-filled with precious nard;
Nor did she deem the act a task,
Nor look for great reward;
She only thought of His great love,
And felt her gift was small
For Him who left His home above
To suffer death for all.
But her blest Lord more highly prized
The loving heart that gave;
For loveless gifts are e'er despised,
Yet men oft seek to pave
The way that leads to glory land
With deeds devoid of grace;
But only those who love can stand
Approved before His face.

Joseph Horatio Chant

Better And Best

Better in bitterest agony to lie,
Before Thy throne,
Than through much increase to be lifted up on high,
And stand alone.

Better by one sweet soul, constant and true,
To be beloved,
Than all the kingdoms of delight to trample through,
Unloved, unloved.

Yet best--the need that broke me at Thy feet,
In voiceless prayer,
And cast my chastened heart, a sacrifice complete,
Upon Thy care.

For all the world is nought, and less than nought,
Compared with this,--
That my dear Lord, with His own life, my ransom bought,
And I am His.

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

The Winnowing

Lord, Thou hast stricken us, smitten us sore,
Winnowed us fine on the dread threshing-floor.
                "Had I not reason?--far you had strayed,
                Vain was My calling, you would not be stayed."

Low in the dust, Lord, our hearts now are bowed,
Roughly Thy share through our boasting has ploughed.
                "So as My ploughing prepares for the seed,
                So shall the harvest our best hopes exceed."

Lord, we have lost of our dearest and best,
Flung to the void and cast out to the waste.
                "Nay then, not one of them fell from My hand,
                Here at My side in their glory they stand."

How shall we start, Lord, to build life again,
Fairer and sweeter, and freed from its pain?
                "Build y...

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Flowers Of The Dust

The Mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small--
So soft and slow the great wheels go they scarcely move at all;
But the souls of men fall into them and are powdered into dust,
And in that dust grow the Passion-Flowers--Love, Hope, Trust.

Most wondrous their upspringing, in the dust of the Grinding-Mills,
And rare beyond the telling the fragrance each distils.
Some grow up tall and stately, and some grow sweet and small,
But Life out of Death is in each one--with purpose grow they all.

For that dust is God's own garden, and the Lord Christ tends it fair,
With oh, such loving tenderness! and oh, such patient care!
In sorrow the seeds are planted, they are watered with bitter tears,
But their roots strike down to the Water-Springs and the Sources of the Years....

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

The Cupboard.

        Mother

What's in that cupboard, Mary?

        Mary

Which cupboard, mother dear?

        Mother

The cupboard of red mahogany
    With handles shining clear.

        Mary

That cupboard, dearest mother,
    With shining crystal handles?
There's nought inside but rags and jags
    And yellow tallow candles.

        Mother

What's in that cupboard, Mary?

        Mary

Which cupboard, mother mine?

        Mother

That cupboard stands in your sunny chamber,
    The silver corners shine.

        Mary

There's nothing there inside, mother,
    But wool and thread and flax,
And bits of faded silk and velvet,
    And candles of white wax.
...

Robert von Ranke Graves