Another lily through the darkness peers, Bound on some heavenly mission thence afar, Before his breast he held a lily tall Whose flowers were purest white, save where did fall Faint rose reflection from his shadowing wings; And still he brooded with low murmurings Over the stainless petals, and did press Soon to my wondering ears he did unfold The strangest story angel ever told ! Great was the grace, but ah! my clouded brain For, till this hour, I never knew aright The mysteries which thy kindness has made bright. It seems, that day, he, sent by God Most High, Had sought a maiden of mortality, To say that she, a virgin undefil'd, Should be the mother of a wondrous Child. He found her in a garden wall'd and sure, Three lilies with the morning dew still wet. One fragrant token of that solemn day. No longer I must ponder this in vain, The child was He who in this tomb is lain ! SER. But hark! what sound comes through the silent air? What men are these with foreheads bow'd and bare? Surely this little troop was wont to follow Christ's sacred footsteps over hill and hollow, And, with more love than knowledge, faith than wit, Humbly, as listeners, round his feet to sit. Down the hill, and by the garden, the DISCIPLES slowly puss, singing: Why should we weep and sorrow thus in vain? Let us go back again To those fair shores on which the wavelets break Of Galilee's calm lake; Once more the nets, once more the little boat, Across the silent water-ways that bore Him we shall see no more. Why did we ever leave those noiseless places, We will go back to our old trade again, Ay me! He had a winning voice, and ways None ever spoke such words as this Man said, O thou rock-bulwark'd and imperial town, Thou seem'st a lamp lit by pure seraphim, Yet art a fen-fire dim! I O cruel city, blinded and undone! This was the Spotless One: This was the Man gentle and without stain, If ye must murder, was there then no death, To take away his breath, Less shameful than this doom of thief and slave? Than this dishonour'd grave? Ah! we are simple folk, and cannot know The reason of each blow; We see full little, yet to our poor eyes Now all the wishes of our lives are dead, If anything could cheer our sad hearts yet, O calm, cold eyes, and sweet and silent mouth, Parched with a deadly drouth! O sacred Master, whom we lov'd so well! For evermore, farewell! As they depart, SALOME and MARY MAGDALENE timidly approach. M. M. Now these are gone, Salome, let us see Where they have laid Him! SAL. Can it, can it be, That Jesus, lovely Master, lies alone, Beneath the pressure of that great white stone? M. M. My heart is there! I feel the bitter weight! Oh! hold my hands till this sharp grief abate! Salome, I could kill myself for sorrow: The dismal night-time has a darker morrow. Each day brings fresh despair; I feel within, What brought this woe upon Him was my sin; And Hope is gone for ever. SAL. Joy is gone, But Hope, dear sister, kneeling at God's throne, May not be thrust away. Hope is a lute That gives sweet songs out, when the birds are mute, In wintry weather. Though the Lord is dead, Are not His words to be remembered? |