Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/252

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