The sorrow for the Dead,
Mantling its lowly head
From the world's glare, is, in Thy sight, set free;
And the fond, aching Love,
Thy Minister, to move
All the wrung spirit, softening it for Thee.
And doth not Thy dread eye
Behold the agony
In that most hidden chamber of the heart,
Where darkly sits Remorse,
Beside the secret source
Of fearful Visions, keeping watch apart?
Yes!—here before Thy throne
Many—yet each alone—
To Thee that terrible unveiling make;
And still small whispers clear
Are startling many an ear,
As if a Trumpet bade the Dead awake.
How dreadful is this place!
The glory of Thy face
Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight:
Where shall the guilty flee?
Over what far-off Sea?
What Hills, what Woods, may shroud him from that Light?
Not to the Cedar shade
Let his vain flight be made;
Nor the old mountains, nor the Desert Sea;
What, but the Cross, can yield
The Hope—the Stay—the Shield?
Thence may the Atoner lead him up to Thee!
Be Thou, be Thou his Aid!
Oh! let thy Love pervade
The haunted Caves of self-accusing Thought!
There let the living stone
Be cleft—the seed be sown—
The song of Fountains from the silence brought!
So shall Thy breath once more
Within the soul restore
Thy own first Image—Holiest and most High!
As a clear Lake is filled
With hues of Heaven, instilled
Down to the depths of its calm Purity.
And if, amidst the throng
Linked by the ascending song,
There are, whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar;
Thanks, Father! that the power
Of joy, man's early dower,
Thus, even midst tears, can fervently adore!
Thanks for each gift divine!
Eternal Praise be Thine,
Blessing and Love, O Thou that hearest Prayer!
Let the Hymn pierce the sky,
And let the Tombs reply!
For seed, that waits thy Harvest-time, is there.
