If I might guess, then guess I would
That, mid the gathered folk,
This gentle Dorcas one day stood,
And heard when Jesus spoke.
She saw the woven seamless coat—
Half envious, for his sake:
“Oh, happy hands,” she said, “that wrought
The honoured thing to make!”
Her eyes with longing tears grow dim:
She never can come nigh
To work one service poor for him
For whom she glad would die!
But, hark, he speaks! Oh, precious word!
And she has heard indeed!
“When did we see thee naked, Lord,
And clothed thee in thy need?”
“The King shall answer, Inasmuch
As to my brethren ye
Did it—even to the least of such—
Ye did it unto me.”
Home, home she went, and plied the loom,
And Jesus’ poor arrayed.
She died—they wept about the room,
And showed the coats she made.
© George MacDonald