Religious Studies, Sketches and Poems
полная версия
Аннотация
Читать онлайн
- -
- 100%
- +
THE INNER VOICE
"Come ye yourselves into a desert place and rest awhile; for there were many coming and going, so that they had no time so much as to eat."
'Mid the mad whirl of life, its dim confusion,Its jarring discords and poor vanity,Breathing like music over troubled waters,What gentle voice, O Christian, speaks to thee?It is a stranger, – not of earth or earthly;By the serene, deep fullness of that eye, —By the calm, pitying smile, the gesture lowly, —It is thy Saviour as He passeth by."Come, come," He saith, "O soul oppressed and weary,Come to the shadows of my desert rest,Come walk with me far from life's babbling discords,And peace shall breathe like music in thy breast."Art thou bewildered by contesting voices, —Sick to thy soul of party noise and strife?Come, leave it all, and seek that solitudeWhere thou shalt learn of me a purer life."When far behind the world's great tumult dieth,Thou shalt look back and wonder at its roar;But its far voice shall seem to thee a dream,Its power to vex thy holier life be o'er."There shalt thou learn the secret of a power,Mine to bestow, which heals the ills of living;To overcome by love, to live by prayer,To conquer man's worst evils by forgiving."ABIDE IN ME, AND I IN YOU
THE SOUL'S ANSWER
That mystic word of thine, O sovereign Lord,Is all too pure, too high, too deep for me;Weary of striving, and with longing faint,I breathe it back again in prayer to thee.Abide in me, I pray, and I in thee;From this good hour, O leave me nevermore;Then shall the discord cease, the wound be healed,The lifelong bleeding of the soul be o'er.Abide in me; o'ershadow by thy loveEach half-formed purpose and dark thought of sin;Quench, e'er it rise, each selfish, low desire,And keep my soul as thine, calm and divine.As some rare perfume in a vase of clayPervades it with a fragrance not its own,So, when thou dwellest in a mortal soul,All heaven's own sweetness seems around it thrown.Abide in me: there have been moments blestWhen I have heard thy voice and felt thy power;Then evil lost its grasp, and passion, hushed,Owned the divine enchantment of the hour.These were but seasons, beautiful and rare;Abide in me, and they shall ever be.Fulfill at once thy precept and my prayer, —Come, and abide in me, and I in thee.THE SECRET
"Thou shalt keep them in the secret of thy presence from the strife of tongues."
When winds are raging o'er the upper ocean,And billows wild contend with angry roar,'Tis said, far down beneath the wild commotion,That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore.Far, far beneath, the noise of tempest dieth,And silver waves chime ever peacefully;And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he flieth,Disturbs the sabbath of that deeper sea.So to the soul that knows thy love, O Purest,There is a temple peaceful evermore!And all the babble of life's angry voicesDie in hushed stillness at its sacred door.Far, far away the noise of passion dieth,And loving thoughts rise ever peacefully;And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er he flieth,Disturbs that deeper rest, O Lord, in thee.O rest of rests! O peace serene, eternal!Thou ever livest and thou changest never;And in the secret of thy presence dwellethFullness of joy, forever and forever.THINK NOT ALL IS OVER
Think not, when the wailing winds of autumnDrive the shivering leaflets from the tree, —Think not all is over: spring returneth,Buds and leaves and blossoms thou shalt see.Think not, when the Earth lies cold and sealèd,And the weary birds above her mourn, —Think not all is over: God still liveth,Songs and sunshine shall again return.Think not, when thy heart is waste and dreary,When thy cherished hopes lie chill and sere, —Think not all is over: God still loveth,He will wipe away thy every tear.Weeping for a night alone endureth,God at last shall bring a morning hour;In the frozen buds of every winterSleep the blossoms of a future flower.LINES
TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860
"Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him." – John xx. 15.
In the fair garden of celestial peaceWalketh a Gardener in meekness clad;Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks,And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad.Fair are the silent foldings of his robes,Falling with saintly calmness to his feet;And when he walks, each floweret to his willWith living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart,In the mild summer radiance of his eye;No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost,Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh.And all our pleasant haunts of earthly loveAre nurseries to those gardens of the air;And his far-darting eye, with starry beam,Watcheth the growing of his treasures there.We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears,O'erwatched with restless longings night and day;Forgetful of the high, mysterious rightHe holds to bear our cherished plants away.But when some sunny spot in those bright fieldsNeeds the fair presence of an added flower,Down sweeps a starry angel in the night:At morn, the rose has vanished from our bower.Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a grave!Blank, silent, vacant, but in worlds above,Like a new star outblossomed in the skies,The angels hail an added flower of love.Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound,Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf,Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eyeBeyond the autumn mists of earthly grief.Thy garden rosebud bore, within its breast,Those mysteries of color, warm and bright,That the bleak climate of this lower sphereCould never waken into form and light.Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence,Nor must thou ask to take her thence away;Thou shalt behold her in some coming hour,Full-blossomed in his fields of cloudless day.THE CROCUS
Beneath the sunny autumn sky,With gold leaves dropping round,We sought, my little friend and I,The consecrated ground,Where, calm beneath the holy cross,O'ershadowed by sweet skies,Sleeps tranquilly that youthful form,Those blue unclouded eyes.Around the soft, green swelling moundWe scooped the earth away,And buried deep the crocus-bulbsAgainst a coming day."These roots are dry, and brown, and sere;Why plant them here?" he said,"To leave them, all the winter long,So desolate and dead.""Dear child, within each sere dead formThere sleeps a living flower,And angel-like it shall ariseIn spring's returning hour."Ah, deeper down – cold, dark, and chill —We buried our heart's flower,But angel-like shall he ariseIn spring's immortal hour.In blue and yellow from its graveSprings up the crocus fair,And God shall raise those bright blue eyes,Those sunny waves of hair.Not for a fading summer's morn,Not for a fleeting hour,But for an endless age of bliss,Shall rise our heart's dear flower.CONSOLATION
WRITTEN AFTER THE SECOND BATTLE OF BULL RUN
"And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea."
Ah, many-voiced and angry! how the wavesBeat turbulent with terrible uproar!Is there no rest from tossing, – no repose?Where shall we find a haven and a shore?What is secure from the land-dashing wave?There go our riches, and our hopes fly there;There go the faces of our best beloved,Whelmed in the vortex of its wild despair.Whose son is safe? whose brother, and whose home?The dashing spray beats out the household fire;By blackened ashes weep our widowed soulsOver the embers of our lost desire.By pauses, in the fitful moaning storm,We hear triumphant notes of battle roll.Too soon the triumph sinks in funeral wail;The muffled drum, the death march, shakes the soul!Rocks on all sides, and breakers! at the helmWeak human hand and weary human eyes.The shout and clamor of our dreary strifeGoes up conflicting to the angry skies.But for all this, O timid hearts, be strong;Be of good cheer, for, though the storm must be,It hath its Master: from the depths shall riseNew heavens, new earth, where shall be no more sea.No sea, no tossing, no unrestful storm!Forever past the anguish and the strife;The poor old weary earth shall bloom again,With the bright foliage of that better life.And war, and strife, and hatred, shall be past,And misery be a forgotten dream.The Shepherd God shall lead his peaceful foldBy the calm meadows and the quiet stream.Be still, be still, and know that he is God;Be calm, be trustful; work, and watch, and pray,Till from the throes of this last anguish riseThe light and gladness of that better day."ONLY A YEAR"
One year ago, – a ringing voice,A clear blue eye,And clustering curls of sunny hair,Too fair to die.Only a year, – no voice, no smile,No glance of eye,No clustering curls of golden hair,Fair but to die!One year ago, – what loves, what schemesFar into life!What joyous hopes, what high resolves,What generous strife!The silent picture on the wall,The burial stone,Of all that beauty, life, and joyRemain alone!One year, – one year, – one little year,And so much gone!And yet the even flow of lifeMoves calmly on.The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,Above that head;No sorrowing tint of leaf or spraySays he is dead.No pause or hush of merry birds,That sing above,Tells us how coldly sleeps belowThe form we love.Where hast thou been this year, beloved?What hast thou seen?What visions fair, what glorious life,Where thou hast been?The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!'Twixt us and thee;The mystic veil! when shall it fall,That we may see?Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,But present still,And waiting for the coming hourOf God's sweet will.Lord of the living and the dead,Our Saviour dear!We lay in silence at thy feetThis sad, sad year!BELOW
Loudly sweep the winds of autumnO'er that lone, belovèd grave,Where we laid those sunny ringlets,When those blue eyes set like stars,Leaving us to outer darkness.O the longing and the aching!O the sere deserted grave!Let the grass turn brown upon thee,Brown and withered like our dreams!Let the wind moan through the pine-treesWith a dreary, dirge-like whistle,Sweep the dead leaves on its bosom, —Moaning, sobbing through the branches,Where the summer laughed so gayly.He is gone, our boy of summer, —Gone the light of his blue eyes,Gone the tender heart and manly,Gone the dreams and the aspirings, —Nothing but the mound remaineth,And the aching in our bosoms,Ever aching, ever throbbing:Who shall bring it unto rest?ABOVE
A VISION
Coming down a golden streetI beheld my vanished one,And he moveth on a cloud,And his forehead wears a star;And his blue eyes, deep and holy,Fixed as in a blessèd dream,See some mystery of joy,Some unuttered depth of love.And his vesture is as blueAs the skies of summer are,Falling with a saintly sweep,With a sacred stillness swaying;And he presseth to his bosomHarps of strange and mystic fashion,And his hands, like living pearls,Wander o'er the golden strings.And the music that ariseth,Who can utter or divine it?In that strange celestial thrilling,Every memory of sorrow,Every heart-ache, every anguish,Every fear for the to-morrow,Melt away in charmèd rest.And there be around him many,Bright with robes like evening clouds, —Tender green and clearest amber,Crimson fading into rose,Robes of flames and robes of silver, —And their hues all thrill and trembleWith a living light of feeling,Deepening with each heart's pulsation,Till in vivid trance of colorThat celestial rainbow glows.How they float and wreathe and brighten,Bending low their starry brows,Singing with a tender cadence,And their hands, like spotless lilies,Folded on their prayerful breasts.In their singing seem to mingleTender airs of bygone days; —Mother-hymnings by the cradle,Mother-moanings by the grave,Songs of human love and sorrow,Songs of endless love and rest; —In the pauses of that musicEvery throb of sorrow dies.O my own, my heart's belovèd,Vainly have I wept above thee?Would I call thee from thy gloryTo this world's impurity? —Lo! it passeth, it dissolveth,All the vision melts away;But as if a heavenly lilyDropped into my aching breast,With a healing sweetness laden,With a mystic breath of rest,I am charmed into forgettingAutumn winds and dreary grave.LINES SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF THE WIFE OF MOSES STUART, OF ANDOVER, MASS
How quiet, through the hazy autumn air,The elm-boughs wave with many a gold-flecked leaf!How calmly float the dreamy mantled cloudsThrough these still days of autumn, fair and brief!Our Andover stands thoughtful, fair, and calm,Waiting to lay her summer glories byE'er the bright flush shall kindle all her pines,And her woods blaze with autumn's heraldry.By the old mossy wall the goldenrodWaves as aforetime, and the purple spraysOf starry asters quiver to the breeze,Rustling all stilly through the forest ways.No voice of triumph from those silent skiesBreaks on the calm, and speaks of glories near,Nor bright wings flutter, nor fair glistening robesProclaim that heavenly messengers are here.Yet in our midst an angel hath come down,Troubling the waters in a peaceful home;And from that home, of life's long sickness healed,A saint hath risen, where pain no more may come.Christ's fair elect one, from a hidden lifeOf loving deeds and words of gentleness,Hath passed where all are loving and beloved,Beyond all weariness and all distress.Calm, like a lamb in shepherd's bosom borne,Quiet and trustful hath she sunk to rest;God breathed in tenderness the sweet "Well done!"That scarce awoke a trance so still and blest.Ye who remember the long loving years,The patient mother's hourly martyrdom,The self-renouncing wisdom, the calm trust,Rejoice for her whose day of rest is come!Father and mother, now united, standWaiting for you to bind the household chain;The tent is struck, the home is gone before,And tarries for you on the heavenly plain.By every wish repressed and hope resigned,Each cross accepted and each sorrow borne,She dead yet speaketh, she doth beckon youTo tread the path her patient feet have worn.Each year that world grows richer and more dearWith the bright freight washed from life's stormy shore;O goodly clime, how lovely is thy strand,With those dear faces seen on earth no more!The veil between this world and that to comeGrows tremulous and quivers with their breath;Dimly we hear their voices, see their hands,Inviting us to the release of death.O Thou, in whom thy saints above, below,Are one and undivided, grant us graceIn patience yet to bear our daily cross, —In patience run our hourly shortening race!And while on earth we wear the servant's form,And while life's labors ever toilful be,Breathe in our souls the joyful confidenceWe are already kings and priests with thee.SUMMER STUDIES
Why shouldst thou study in the month of JuneIn dusky books of Greek and Hebrew lore,When the Great Teacher of all glorious thingsPasses in hourly light before thy door?There is a brighter book unrolling now;Fair are its leaves as is the tree of heaven,All veined and dewed and gemmed with wondrous signs,To which a healing mystic power is given.A thousand voices to its study call,From the fair hilltop, from the waterfall,Where the bird singeth, and the yellow bee,And the breeze talketh from the airy tree.Now is that glorious resurrection timeWhen all earth's buried beauties have new birth:Behold the yearly miracle complete, —God hath created a new heaven and earth!No tree that wants its joyful garments now,No flower but hastes his bravery to don;God bids thee to this marriage feast of joy,Let thy soul put the wedding garment on.All fringed with festal gold the barberry stands;The ferns, exultant, clap their new-made wings;The hemlock rustles broideries of fresh green,And thousand bells of pearl the blueberry rings.The long, weird fingers of the old white-pinesDo beckon thee into the flickering wood,Where moving spots of light show mystic flowers,And wavering music fills the dreamy hours.Hast thou no time for all this wondrous show, —No thought to spare? Wilt thou forever beWith thy last year's dry flower-stalk and dead leaves,And no new shoot or blossom on thy tree?See how the pines push off their last year's leaves,And stretch beyond them with exultant bound:The grass and flowers, with living power, o'ergrowTheir last year's remnants on the greening ground.Wilt thou, then, all thy wintry feelings keep,The old dead routine of thy book-writ lore,Nor deem that God can teach, by one bright hour,What life hath never taught to thee before?See what vast leisure, what unbounded rest,Lie in the bending dome of the blue sky:Ah! breathe that life-born languor from thy breast,And know once more a child's unreasoning joy.Cease, cease to think, and be content to be;Swing safe at anchor in fair Nature's bay;Reason no more, but o'er thy quiet soulLet God's sweet teachings ripple their soft way.Soar with the birds, and flutter with the leaf;Dance with the seeded grass in fringy play;Sail with the cloud, wave with the dreaming pine,And float with Nature all the livelong day.Call not such hours an idle waste of time, —Land that lies fallow gains a quiet power;It treasures, from the brooding of God's wings,Strength to unfold the future tree and flower.And when the summer's glorious show is past,Its miracles no longer charm thy sight,The treasured riches of those thoughtful hoursShall make thy wintry musings warm and bright.THE SHEPHERD'S CAROL
"O Shepherd of Israel,Thy lost flock are straying;Our Helper, our Saviour,How long thy delaying!Where, Lord, is thy promiseTo David of old,Of the King and the ShepherdTo gather the fold!"Cold, cold is the night wind,Our hearts have no cheer,Our Lord and our Leader,When wilt thou appear?"So sang the sad shepherdsOn Bethlehem's cold groundWhen lo, the bright angelsIn glory around!"Peace, peace, ye dear shepherds,And be of good cheer;The Lord whom ye long forIs coming – is here!In the city of DavidBehold him appear —A babe in a manger —Go worship him there."They went and were blessèd.Dear soul, go thou too;The Saviour for themIs the Saviour for you.Oh, kneel by the manger,Oh, kneel by the cross;Accept him, believe him, —All else is but dross.HOURS OF THE NIGHT
OR WATCHES OF SORROW
I
MIDNIGHT
"He hath made me to dwell in darkness as those that have been long dead."
All dark! – no light, no ray!Sun, moon, and stars, all gone!Dimness of anguish! – utter void! —Crushed, and alone!One waste of weary pain,One dull, unmeaning ache,A heart too weary even to throb,Too bruised to break.No longer anxious thoughts,No longer hopes and fears,No strife, no effort, no desire,No tears.Daylight and leaves and flowers,Summer and song of bird! —All vanished! – dreams forever gone,Unseen, unheard!Love, beauty, youth, – all gone!The high, heroic vow,The buoyant hope, the fond desire, —All ashes now!The words they speak to meFar off and distant seem,As voices we have known and lovedSpeak in a dream.They bid me to submit;I do, – I cannot strive;I do not question, – I endure,Endure and live.I do not struggle more,Nor pray, for prayer is vain;I but lie still the weary hour,And bear my pain.A guiding God, a Friend,A Father's gracious cheer,Once seemed my own; but now even faithLies buried here.This darkened, deathly lifeIs all remains of me,And but one conscious wish, —To cease to be!II
FIRST HOUR
"There was darkness over all the land from the sixth hour unto the ninth hour.
"And Jesus cried and said, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
That cry hath stirred the deadness of my soul;I feel a heart-string throb, as throbs a chordWhen breaks the master chord of some great harp;My heart responsive answers, "Why?" O Lord.O cross of pain! O crown of cruel thorns!O piercing nails! O spotless Sufferer there!Wert thou forsaken in thy deadly strife?Then canst thou pity me in my despair.Take my dead heart, O Jesus, down with theeTo that still sepulchre where thou didst rest;Lay it in the fair linen's spicy folds,As a dear mother lays her babe to rest.I am so worn, so weary, so o'erspent,To lie with thee in that calm trance were sweet;The bitter myrrh of long-remembered painMay work in me new strength to rise again.This dark and weary mystery of woe,This hopeless struggle, this most useless strife, —Ah, let it end! I die with thee, my Lord,To all I ever hoped or wished from life.I die with thee: thy fellowship of grief,Thy partnership with mortal misery,The weary watching and the nameless dread, —Let them be mine to make me one with thee.Thou hast asked, "Why?" and God will answer thee,Therefore I ask not, but in peace lie down,For the three days of mystery and rest,Till comes the resurrection and the crown.III
SECOND HOUR
"They laid hold upon one Simon a Cyrenian, and on him they laid the cross, that he might bear it after Jesus."
Along the dusty thoroughfare of life,Upon his daily errands walking free,Came a brave, honest man, untouched by pain,Unchilled by sight or thought of misery.But lo! a crowd: – he stops, – with curious eyeA fainting form all pressed to earth he sees;The hard, rough burden of the bitter crossHath bowed the drooping head and feeble knees.Ho! lay the cross upon yon stranger there,For he hath breadth of chest and strength of limb.Straight it is done; and heavy laden thus,With Jesus' cross, he turns and follows him.Unmurmuring, patient, cheerful, pitiful,Prompt with the holy sufferer to endure,Forsaking all to follow the dear Lord, —Thus did he make his glorious calling sure.O soul, whoe'er thou art, walking life's way,As yet from touch of deadly sorrow free,Learn from this story to forecast the dayWhen Jesus and his cross shall come to thee.O in that fearful, that decisive hour,Rebel not, shrink not, seek not thence to flee,But, humbly bending, take thy heavy load,And bear it after Jesus patiently.His cross is thine. If thou and he be one,Some portion of his pain must still be thine;Thus only mayst thou share his glorious crown,And reign with him in majesty divine.Master in sorrow! I accept my shareIn the great anguish of life's mystery.No more, alone, I sink beneath my load,But bear my cross, O Jesus, after thee.IV
THIRD HOUR
THE MYSTERY OF LIFE
"Let my heart calm itself in thee. Let the great sea of my heart, that swelleth with waves, calm itself in thee." – St. Augustine's Manual.
Life's mystery – deep, restless as the ocean —Hath surged and wailed for ages to and fro;Earth's generations watch its ceaseless motion,As in and out its hollow moanings flow.Shivering and yearning by that unknown sea,Let my soul calm itself, O Christ, in thee!Life's sorrows, with inexorable power,Sweep desolation o'er this mortal plain;And human loves and hopes fly as the chaffBorne by the whirlwind from the ripened grain.Ah! when before that blast my hopes all flee,Let my soul calm itself, O Christ, in thee!Between the mysteries of death and lifeThou standest, loving, guiding, not explaining;We ask, and thou art silent; yet we gaze,And our charmed hearts forget their drear complaining.No crushing fate, no stony destiny,O Lamb that hast been slain, we find in thee!The many waves of thought, the mighty tides,The ground-swell that rolls up from other lands,From far-off worlds, from dim, eternal shores,Whose echo dashes on life's wave-worn strands,This vague, dark tumult of the inner seaGrows calm, grows bright, O risen Lord, in thee!Thy piercèd hand guides the mysterious wheels;Thy thorn-crowned brow now wears the crown of power;And when the dread enigma presseth sore,Thy patient voice saith, "Watch with me one hour."As sinks the moaning river in the seaIn silver peace, so sinks my soul in thee!V
FOURTH HOUR
THE SORROWS OF MARY
DEDICATED TO THE MOTHERS WHO HAVE LOST SONS IN THE LATE WARI slept, but my heart was waking,And out in my dreams I sped,Through the streets of an ancient city,Where Jesus, the Lord, lay dead.He was lying all cold and lowly,And the sepulchre was sealed,And the women that bore the spicesHad come from the holy field.There is feasting in Pilate's palace,There is revel in Herod's hall,Where the lute and the sounding instrumentTo mirth and merriment call."I have washed my hands," said Pilate,"And what is the Jew to me?""I have missed my chance," said Herod,"One of his wonders to see."But why should our courtly circleTo the thought give further place?All dreams, save of pleasure and beauty,Bid the dancers' feet efface."… .I saw a light from a casement,And entered a lowly door,Where a woman, stricken and mournful,Sat in sackcloth on the floor.There Mary, the mother of Jesus,And John, the belovèd one,With a few poor friends beside them,Were mourning for Him that was gone.And before the mother was lyingThat crown of cruel thorn,Wherewith they crowned that gentle browIn mockery that morn.And her ears yet ring with the anguishOf that last dying cry, —That mighty appeal of agonyThat shook both earth and sky.O God, what a shaft of anguishWas that dying voice from the tree! —From Him the only spotless, —"Why hast Thou forsaken me?"And was he of God forsaken?They ask, appalled with dread;Is evil crowned and triumphant,And goodness vanquished and dead?Is there, then, no God in Jacob?Is the star of Judah dim?For who would our God deliver,If he would not deliver him?If God could not deliver, – what hope then?If he would not, – who ever shall dareTo be firm in his service hereafter?To trust in his wisdom or care?So darkly the Tempter was saying,To hearts that with sorrow were dumb;And the poor souls were clinging in darkness to God,With hands that with anguish were numb.… .In my dreams came the third day morning,And fairly the day-star shone;But fairer, the solemn angel,As he rolled away the stone.In the lowly dwelling of Mary,In the dusky twilight chill,There was heard the sound of coming feet,And her very heart grew still.And in the glimmer of dawning,She saw him enter the door,Her Son, all living and real,Risen, to die no more!Her Son, all living and real,Risen no more to die, —With the power of an endless life in his face,With the light of heaven in his eye.O mourning mothers, so many,Weeping o'er sons that are dead,Have ye thought of the sorrows of Mary's heart,Of the tears that Mary shed?Is the crown of thorns before you?Are there memories of cruel scorn?Of hunger and thirst and bitter coldThat your belovèd have borne?Had ye ever a son like JesusTo give to a death of pain?Did ever a son so cruelly die,But did he die in vain?Have ye ever thought that all the hopesThat make our earth-life fair,Were born in those three bitter daysOf Mary's deep despair?O mourning mothers, so many,Weeping in woe and pain,Think on the joy of Mary's heartIn a Son that is risen again.Have faith in a third-day morning,In a resurrection-hour;For what ye sow in weakness,He can raise again in power.Have faith in the Lord of that thorny crown,In the Lord of the piercèd hand;For he reigneth now o'er earth and heaven,And his power who may withstand?And the hopes that never on earth shall bloom,The sorrows forever new,Lay silently down at the feet of HimWho died and is risen for you.