Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/90

90 On bended knee, fast by his servant's side, Sought the same Master,—brethren in the faith, And fellow-pilgrims. See, yon wrinkled brow Where care and grief for many a year have trac'd Alternate furrows,—near that ruby lip, Which but the honey and the dew of love Have nourish'd. And for each, eternal health Descendeth here. Look! Look! as yon deep veil Is swept aside, what an o'erwhelming page Disease hath written with its pen of pain. Ah, gentle sister, thou art hasting where No treacherous hectic plants its funeral rose: Drink thou the wine-cup of thy risen Lord, And it shall nerve thee for thy toilsome path Through the dark valley of the shade of death. —'Tis o'er. A holy silence reigns around. The organ slumbers. The sweet, solemn voice Of him who dealt the soul its heavenly food Turns inward, like a wearied sentinel, Pillowing on thought profound. Then every head Bows down in parting worship, mute and deep, The whisper of the soul. And who may tell In that brief, silent space, how many a hope Is born that hath a life beyond the tomb. —So hear us, Father! in our voiceless prayer, That at thy better banquet, all may meet, And take the cup of bliss, and thirst no more.