Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/70

                                 Hark! what sound appall'd
The suffering husband? 'Twas a mourner's sob
Beside his bed.
                         "My Mother will not speak,
They say she's dead."
                                    Art thou the messenger,
Poor boy! from whom the love that gently sooth'd
Thy cradle moan,—that 'mid thy sports did trace
The great Creator's name, and on thro' life
Mid all its wanderings and adversities
Would still have clung to thee untir'd, unchang'd,
Is blotted out forever? Thou dost tell
A loss thou canst not measure.
                                              She, the friend,
The Mother, imag'd in those daughter's hearts,
First, dearest, best-beloved,—who joy'd to walk
The meek companion of a Man of God
Hath given her hand to that Destroyer's grasp
Who rifleth the clay cottage,—sending forth
The immortal habitant. Fearless she laid
Earth's vestments by.
                              And thou, whose tenderest trust
Did strongly rivet on that marble form,
Whose confidence in that cold breast was seal'd
So fearlessly and long, lift up thy soul,
"She is not here,—but risen." Show the faith
Which thou hast preach'd to others, by its power
In the dark night of trouble. Take the cross,
And from thy bruised heart pour freshly forth
The spirit of thy Lord, teaching thy flock
To learn Jehovah's lessons,—and be still.