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CRUCE AND CORONA.
Of holy truth reach darkened souls around.And with that language on her lips at lastHer ministries begin.
The night is dark.The rain drops heavily from palm-tree boughs,And drearily against the window beats,A window of the missionary's home.Beside it, with a more than dreary lookOf helpless woe within her eyes' dark depths,Crucè is watching o'er her father's faceThe falling of death's shadow cold and pale.
The sad hours of the weary night are past.Soft breaking through the mists the morning dawns.Beside the open grave the mourners stand;A brother missionary o'er the graveBends tearfully, and lifts his voice in pray'r.
Crucè beside her father's coffin stands.She sees the coffin, sees the open grave,She hears the slow and solemn tones of pray'r,She sees, she hears, but realizes not.
While o'er her father's eyes death's shadow fell,The pow'r by which her spirit chords were riv'n
