CRUCE AND CORONA.
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Had sealed the soul-founts both of hope and grief,In icy fetters bound emotion's streams,And at one blow her consciousness struck blind. Where reason, though inactive, keeps its throne,While in unconsciousness the soul may keepThe semblance of oblivion's deep trance,Then fearfully at last in woe there comesThe waking up into reality.
'Tis Sabbath morn. The mission chapel bellRings out its peals, deep, clear, upon the air;And to the spirit of Crucè they comeWith an awak'ning pow'r.How oft the callTo worship hath her father answered! Now,Alas! the summons are for him no more.And, on her mem'ry swiftly rushing nowThe scenes of parting, death, and burial,And realizing fearfully her loss,A cold, cold weight upon her spirit falls;The weight of this one dreary, dreary thought,—In life's vast wilderness, all, all alone.
The Mighty One who sits at God's right hand,Who reigned with Him in glory ere this worldResponsive to creation's mandate came,Divinely human, once upon this earthWithin Gethsemane in anguish knelt.
