Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/73

Rh Still o'er the loved disciple's page
 * His fervent spirit hung,

Regardless though the grasp of pain
 * Each shuddering nerve unstrung.

"Speed on!" Then flew the writer's pen
 * With grief and fear perplext,

For Death's sure footstep nearer drew
 * With each receding text.

The prompting breath more faintly came—
 * "Speed on!—his form I see—

That awful messenger of God,
 * Who may not stay for me."

"Master, 'tis done." "Thou speakest well,
 * Life with thy lines kept pace"—

They bare him to the place of prayer,
 * The death-dew on his face;

And there, while o'er the gasping breast
 * The last keen torture stole,

With the high watch-word of the skies,
 * Went forth that sainted soul.