Magdalene Passes

What one is this, that bears the band of shame within her breast, And wanders through the mocking land, denied a place of rest? What one is this, your hue and cry pursue with withering hate, Until her best hope is to die, nor meet a harder fate? This, this is she who hides her head in shame to gloom the sun; Who waits, as in their graves the dead, until the day is done; Whose tasks make pitiful the dark, and dreadful all the night, And leave her spirit striken stark and crushed at morning light. Beneath the shadows of silk and lace her form is spare and shrunk, And through the rogue upon her face see how her cheeks have sunk, Her lightsome laugh hides not her thought; her brow is scarred with care. And her flashing rings with jewels wrought, but gild and grace despair. Has she no tears to weep for grief, no voice to cry with woe, No memories panged beyond belief for joys of long ago, Has she no tortured dreams to smart, no anguish for her brow, Has she no broken bleeding heart, that you must curse her now? Is here no innocence o'erthrown, no wrecked sweet maidenhood, No sense of loss, like heavy stone, to make her doubt all good? Are here no women's ruined charms, no dead and withering breasts? Are here no hapless, vacant arms, which should lull babes to rest? And what are you, who at her gird, and deem yourselves unstained; Do you forget your black false word, the righteous act disdain, Your lust of power, the debtors tears, cold hunger's starving cries, And all the evil of your years, that clamors to the skies! Your horror is a vail to wear and cover o'er your deeds; Your wrongs are pointed at you there, though none your presence heeds. Your vileness would itself deny in falsest hate of hers; Gaze at yourself with inward eye, you whited sepulchers! Repent! Your vanity betrays, and wrenches reason strong, Until it wraps the truth to ways which shape a right of wrong; But every sin is still a sin; and if your hands be shriven, Her heart is no more black within, and she shall be forgiven. You ask not where those siren lips learned their unworthy skill, Nor reck of how shame's black eclipse obscured her purer will. You think not whence fair thoughts like flowers gave room to passions low; You know not of her girlhood's hours; you do not care to know. Nay! But the truth cries for the light, and struggles to be heard; The story of her bruise and blight shall out in burning word— Yours was the power which crushed that grace and gave it to despair, And the mask of beauty on that face, your hands have painted there! She was the temple of your lust, the altar of your greed; The sacrifice of faith and trust you made with careful heed. She was the price of pleasure's worth, the weight against your gold, Where love and truth repine in dearth, and all is bought and sold. And will you loathe your work at last, and spurn her with disgust? And shall your pride blot out the past and hide her murdered trust? And will you brand upon her brow the deeds which she doth do? Speak; Will you dare to hate her now, who weeps, and pardons you? Nay, more scoff to see her sink, nor laugh upon her tears; You shall not hand hate's baneful drink, and mock her with your jeers. Bow down and hide your head for shame, and for your acts atone, Accept your guilt; abide your blame; nor cast a single stone. And crimson sin shall balance sin, and none shall be denied, Till every heart is soft within and humbled in its pride. And each with each shall equal stand, and all be one in worth, Till every hand shall clasp a hand and love shall fill the earth.