Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/152

152  She heedeth not, she heedeth not, She, who from early days Had joy'd within that holy Church To swell Jehovah's praise.

Then onward toward a narrow cell They tread the grass-grown track From whence the unreturning guest Doth send no tidings back; There sleeps the grandsire high and brave In freedom's battles tried,* With him whose banner was the cross Of Jesus crucified.

Down by those hoary chiefs she laid Her young, unfrosted head, To rise no more, until the voice Of Jesus wakes the dead, From her own dear, domestic bower, From deep, confiding love, From earth's unshaded smile, she turn'd    To purer bliss above.

 

silent curtains of the night Each lonely cell surround, God's dwelling is in perfect light, His mercy hath no bound. 