IN Martha’s house the weary Master lay,
Spent with His faring through the burning day.
The busy hostess bustled through the room
On household cares intent, and at His feet
The gentle Mary took her wonted seat.
Soft came His words in music through the gloom.
Cumbered about much serving Martha wrought –
Her sister listening as the Master taught –
Till something fretful an appeal she made:
“Doth it not matter that on me doth fall
The burden; Mary helpeth not at all?
Master, command her that she give me aid.”
To read the rest of this poem visit:
The One Thing Needful at bramstoker.org