A Martyr's Grave.
127
For here the Christian found repose;
A grave in life was peace,
Peace was the watchword of his lips,
His grave in death—release.
The martyr found his couch of rest
Carved in the waiting stone;
The slab enclosed the tortured frame,
Where slept he sweetly on.
A grave in life was peace,
Peace was the watchword of his lips,
His grave in death—release.
The martyr found his couch of rest
Carved in the waiting stone;
The slab enclosed the tortured frame,
Where slept he sweetly on.
Rudely was scratched the victor's name,
With palm of peace, and dove—
The Ampullà of sacred blood,
Placed there by hand of love.
More than a hundred years ago,
A martyr's grave unsealed,
And slab removed, the bones e'en then,
An odour sweet revealed.
With palm of peace, and dove—
The Ampullà of sacred blood,
Placed there by hand of love.
More than a hundred years ago,
A martyr's grave unsealed,
And slab removed, the bones e'en then,
An odour sweet revealed.
Ah, could it be that costly spice,
Or aromatic gum,
Was not absorbed by damp decay,
And night tears of the tomb?
Or aromatic gum,
Was not absorbed by damp decay,
And night tears of the tomb?
