I Am the Woman

A dark and a weary thing is come on our head—

To search obedience out in the bosom of sin,

To listen deep for love when thunders the curse;

For O my love, behold where the Lord hath planted

In every star in the midst His dangerous Tree!

Still I must pluck thereof and bring unto thee,

Saying, 'The coolness for which all night we have panted;

Taste of the goodly thing, I have tasted first!'

Bringing us noway coolness, but burning thirst,

Giving us noway peace, but implacable strife,

Loosing upon us the wounding joy and the wasting sorrow of life!

I am the Woman, ark of the Law and sacred arm to upbear it,

Heathen trumpet to overthrow and idolatrous sword to shear it:

Yea, she whose arm was round the neck of the morning star at song,

Is she who kneeleth now in the dust and cries at the secret door,

'Open to me, 0 sleeping mother! The gate is heavy and strong.

'Open to me, I am come at last; be wroth with thy child no more.

'Let me lie down with thee there in the dark, and be slothful with thee as before!'