Poems (Angier)/The Death of Moses

by Annie Lanman Angier

THE DEATH OF MOSES.

How stately his step, and how princely his mien,
A conqueror's form on Mount Nebo is seen;
No weapon he bears, though his foe is a king,
The dark King of Terrors, with broad, sable wing.

Where monarchs have trembled, and heroes have quailed,
His footstep ne'er faltered, his faith never failed;
He thought of the rock, and the bush, and the rod,
Gave his flesh to the dust, and his spirit to God.

On his brow the cold dewdrops are gathering fast,
His pulses beat slow, one more throb, 'tis the last;
He heeds not that struggle, for angels are near
To bear him in triumph far, far from all fear.

He fell not by pestilence, famine, or sword,
The dart from Death's quiver was, "Thus saith the Lord:"
All power of the tyrant was broken and slain
By Him who once died, but now liveth again.

For us in life's desert, life's wilderness road,
From the bare, flinty rock hath no crystal stream flowed?
Hath no rod of chastisement budded and blown?
Through no burning bush hath our Father's face shone?

Then let the stern messenger come when he will,
On land or broad ocean, in valley, on hill;
We'll welcome the mandate to Moses once given,
Yield flesh to the dust, and the spirit to heaven.