Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/70

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.