Classic Poem

He spake: He died and rose again—
And now His Spirit lights
The hallowed fires o'er land and main,
And every heart invites.

They glow: but not in gems and gold
With cedar arched o'er;
But in far nooks obscure and cold,
On many a cabin floor:

When the true soldiers steal an hour
To break the bread of Life,
And drink the draught of love and power,
And plan the holy strife.

Ye humble Tapers, fearless burn—
Ere in the morn ye fade,
Ye shall behold a soul return,
Even from the last dim shade:

That all may know what love untold
Attends the chosen race,
Whom apostolic arms enfold,
Who cling to that embrace.

And wheresoe'er a cottage light
Is trimmed for evening prayer,
Faith may recall that wondrous night—
Who raised the dead, is there.