Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/252

The sleeping friends who could not watch one hour,
The torch, the flashing sword, the traitor's kiss,
The astonish'd angel with the tear of Heaven
Upon his cheek, still striving to assuage
Those fearful pangs that bow'd the Son of God
Like a bruis'd reed. Thou who hast power to look
Thus at Gethsemane, be still! be still!
What are thine insect-woes compar'd to his
Who agonizeth there? Count thy brief pains
As the dust-atom on life's chariot wheels,
And in a Saviour's grief forget them all.
—Is't not a holy place, thy Garden's bound?
"Look to the Sepulchre!" said they of Rome,
"And set a seal upon it." So, the guard
Who knew that sleep was death, stood with fix'd eye
Watching the garden-tomb, which proudly hid
The body of the crucified.
                                           Whose steps
'Mid the ill-stifled sob of woman's grief
Prevent the dawn? Yet have they come too late,
For He is risen,—He hath burst the tomb,
Whom 'twas not possible for Death to hold.
Yea, his pierc'd hand did cleave the heavens, to share
That resurrection, which the "slow of heart"
Shrank to believe.
                              Fain would I, on this spot,
So holy, ponder, till the skies grow dark,
And sombre evening spreads her deepest pall.
—Come to my heart, thou Wisdom that dost grow
In the chill coffin of the shrouded dead,
Come to my heart. For silver hairs may spring
Thick o'er the temples, yet the soul fall short