Morn dawns on old Judea, soft and fair;
There is a holy quiet in the air;
The storied hills and valleys are as bright
As if the curse of sin had left no blight
Upon the old earth's heart; yet there is pain
And weary toil, and hopes that bloomed in vain,
And darkened homes, where lonely Rachels keep
Love's vigil by their dead, and wail and weep
Uncomforted. Even now a funeral train
Winds slowly, sadly thro the gates of Nain.
The mourner is a widow, bowed with grief
And anguish that deny the poor relief
Of bitter tears. With slow, uncertain tread
And pallid face she walks behind her dead,
Taking no interest in the far or near,
Since there is nothing left to love or fear.
She had been happy once; had heard the mirth
Of joyous children round her humble hearth.
But, ah! the reaper came; his shadow fell
Upon the little band she loved so well,
And all its tender ties were rent apart.
The chosen partner of her life and heart
Went out forever; then the children fair,
Whose little feet made sweetest music there,
Faded away, till only one was left.
O how her heart, so broken, so bereft,
Wound its torn tendrils round that only child —
Her all, her beautiful, her undefiled!
He was for her the solitary beam
Of light and gladness on life's troubled stream.
He grew in strength and beauty, through the hours
That passed so swiftly, with their dreams and flowers,
To early manhood; his old mother's hope,
Her stay, support and staff adown life's slope.
But Death, insatiate, claimed another prey,
And he, the last, the loveliest, passed away.
She saw the fading cheek, the parting breath;
She saw the fatal sign and seal of Death;
And when she knew his loving soul was gone
Beyond recall, her bleeding heart beat on.
She folded him once more in fond embrace,
Scanned every lineament of his dear face,
Kissed the cold, marble brow, the pallid cheek,
And icy lips that had no word to speak,
And then, went forth to lay his fair, young head
In the lone city of the silent dead.
But who is He, that way worn traveler?
Whence came the man, and wherefore is he here?
His garb is poor and humble, but His face
Is full of wondrous majesty and grace.
Why do the bearers of the dead stand still?
What are the wondrous words that seem to thrill
The heart-strings of the hearers? Is that breath
That stirs that pulseless bosom? Mighty Death!
The Son of God hath spoken, thou hast heard,
And given up thy victim at His word.
And now the life-tide rushes, free and warm,
Through every vein of that cold, pallid form.
The lip is tremulous, the brow grows bright,
And the dim eye resumes its wonted light.
Oh, who can tell the wild, the frantic joy
Of that fond mother o'er her living boy
And is the hue of life upon his cheek?
And can he see, and hear, and feel, and speak?
Great God! in human form, whose mighty power
Called back the spirit in that triumph hour,
What shall we say when Thou shalt come again,
With twice ten thousand angels in thy train,
To shake the solid earth, to rend the skies,
And bid the myriads of the dead arise?
There is a holy quiet in the air;
The storied hills and valleys are as bright
As if the curse of sin had left no blight
Upon the old earth's heart; yet there is pain
And weary toil, and hopes that bloomed in vain,
And darkened homes, where lonely Rachels keep
Love's vigil by their dead, and wail and weep
Uncomforted. Even now a funeral train
Winds slowly, sadly thro the gates of Nain.
The mourner is a widow, bowed with grief
And anguish that deny the poor relief
Of bitter tears. With slow, uncertain tread
And pallid face she walks behind her dead,
Taking no interest in the far or near,
Since there is nothing left to love or fear.
She had been happy once; had heard the mirth
Of joyous children round her humble hearth.
But, ah! the reaper came; his shadow fell
Upon the little band she loved so well,
And all its tender ties were rent apart.
The chosen partner of her life and heart
Went out forever; then the children fair,
Whose little feet made sweetest music there,
Faded away, till only one was left.
O how her heart, so broken, so bereft,
Wound its torn tendrils round that only child —
Her all, her beautiful, her undefiled!
He was for her the solitary beam
Of light and gladness on life's troubled stream.
He grew in strength and beauty, through the hours
That passed so swiftly, with their dreams and flowers,
To early manhood; his old mother's hope,
Her stay, support and staff adown life's slope.
But Death, insatiate, claimed another prey,
And he, the last, the loveliest, passed away.
She saw the fading cheek, the parting breath;
She saw the fatal sign and seal of Death;
And when she knew his loving soul was gone
Beyond recall, her bleeding heart beat on.
She folded him once more in fond embrace,
Scanned every lineament of his dear face,
Kissed the cold, marble brow, the pallid cheek,
And icy lips that had no word to speak,
And then, went forth to lay his fair, young head
In the lone city of the silent dead.
But who is He, that way worn traveler?
Whence came the man, and wherefore is he here?
His garb is poor and humble, but His face
Is full of wondrous majesty and grace.
Why do the bearers of the dead stand still?
What are the wondrous words that seem to thrill
The heart-strings of the hearers? Is that breath
That stirs that pulseless bosom? Mighty Death!
The Son of God hath spoken, thou hast heard,
And given up thy victim at His word.
And now the life-tide rushes, free and warm,
Through every vein of that cold, pallid form.
The lip is tremulous, the brow grows bright,
And the dim eye resumes its wonted light.
Oh, who can tell the wild, the frantic joy
Of that fond mother o'er her living boy
And is the hue of life upon his cheek?
And can he see, and hear, and feel, and speak?
Great God! in human form, whose mighty power
Called back the spirit in that triumph hour,
What shall we say when Thou shalt come again,
With twice ten thousand angels in thy train,
To shake the solid earth, to rend the skies,
And bid the myriads of the dead arise?