"Could see the Mother with the Child
Whose tender winning arts
Have to his little arms beguiled
So many wounded hearts!
"And centuries came, and ran their course;
And, unspent all that time,
Still, still went forth that Child's dear force,
And still was at its prime.
"Ay, ages long endured his span
Of life,—'tis true received,—
That gracious Child, that thorn-crowned Man!
—He lived while we believed.
"While we believed, on earth he went,
And open stood his grave;
Men called from chamber, church, and tent,
And Christ was by to save.
"Now he is dead! Far hence he lies
In the lorn Syrian town;
And on his grave, with shining eyes,
The Syrian stars look down.
"In vain men still, with hoping new,
Regard his death-place dumb,
And say the stone is not yet to,
And wait for words to come.
"Ah! from that silent sacred land
Of sun, and arid stone,
And crumbling wall, and sultry sand,
Comes now one word alone!
"From David's lips that word did roll;
