Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/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.