Ujamaa Christian Poetry

The Alabaster Box

She anointed Him with spikenard.
His feet she washed with tears.
She knelt before Him, broken,
'Til He allayed her fears.

What a waste of costly ointment!
The corrupt disciple said.
Nay! What she did, she did in love,
Remember when I'm dead.
For I shall rise again, dear friends,
And I shall conquer death.
But this is for my burial,
And done while I have breath.
My feet she washed with tears
And she wiped them with her hair.
What she did will be related
With the Gospel everywhere!

Now, many Christians suffered
At the hands of wicked men,
With agonies unspeakable
Why should it be so, then,
That this woman who did cry
And wash our dear Lord's feet
Should be spoken of so widely?
Is this not indiscreet?
Here then, is that great secret
Of the alabaster box.
(And what a revelation
That one small key unlocks.)

The King sat at the table,
The Song of Solomon said.
His bride caused smell of spikenard
To rise there while He fed.
And Christ the Lord, He sat at meat
In that poor leper's house.
The woman humbled at His feet,
In figure, was His spouse.

The parallel is clear at once,
The shadow we can see.
The bride of our Lord Jesus Christ
Is none but you and me.
The sober lesson we must learn
In parallel complete;
The whore became the bride, my friend,
By crying at His feet.

Written by Harry Pywell


Ujamaa Christian Poetry