Classic Poem

Thy miracles are no state splendours,
Whose pomps Thy daily works excel;
The rock which breaks the stream, but renders
Its constant current audible;

The power which startles us in thunders
Works ever silently in light;
And mightier than these special wonders,
The wonders daily in our sight;

Rents in the veils Thy works that fold,
They let the inner light shine through;
The rent is new, the light is old,
Eternal, never ever new.

And therefore, when Thy touch arrests
The bearers of that bier at Nain,
Warm on unnumbered hearts it rests,
Though yet their dead live not again.

And Thy compassionate " Weep not! "
On this our tearful earth once heard,
For every age with comfort fraught,
Tells how Thy heart is ever stirred.

Nature repeats the tale each year,
She feels Thy touch through countless springs,
And, rising from her wintry bier,
Throws off her grave-clothes, lives and sings.

And when Thy touch through earth shall thrill,
This bier whereon our race is laid,
And, for the first time standing still,
The long procession of the dead.

At Thy " Arise! " shall wake from clay,
Young, deathless, freed from every stain;
When Thy " Weep not! " shall wipe away
Tears that shall never come again;

When the strong chains of death are burst,
And lips long dumb begin to speak,
What name will each then utter first? —
What music shall that silence break?