When the heart, no longer beating, All its painful throbbings o’er— When it stirs life’s crimson current With its hopes and fears no more, Will another heart feel sorrow For the stillness resting there? Will it for a whole tomorrow Wear a saddened shade of care? When the weary hands are folded For that long unbroken rest, And the spirit wings in freedom To its home among the blest, Will one tender feeling waken In that heart a fond regret, That will last thro’ summer’s blooming— That will never quite forget? When the lips are cold and silent— Hushed for aye their gentle speech, With love’s whispers dying on them, Will their mute appealing reach To the rock-girt fount of feeling? Will Remorse with stinging rod, Smite and bring the welling tear-drops To bedew the new-laid sod? Persecuted. Alone, alone I tread the shore Where surges beat forevermore With deaf’ning, hollow wail; The sky, o’ercast with angry frown, Doth drop the loaded clouds, low down, To beat me with their hail. And, helpless here upon the strand With no out-reaching friendly hand, I face the roaring sea. With reverent love my soul is stirred, And seeking TRUTH within Thy word I come, dear Lord, to Thee. Aye, take my hand in thine Oh, God! And lead me, where Thine own have trod, By waters, pure and sweet. O, send thy Comforter to calm The aching heart with holy balm, And keep me at thy feet! Nature’s gift had been more kind If a pulpy, plastic mind, To fit, with ease, their mold; Then self-assumed, “straight orthodox” Had gathered me, with petted flocks, Within the church’s fold. O, loving Christ! Am I not thine? And Thy disciples, truly mine, Each my sister or my brother, By the heritage of heaven— By the new commandment given, That we all love one another? O, help me Lord with thee to pray!— “Forgive them Father,” Thou didst say, “They know not what they do.” May sheltering love, dear Lord, be mine— O, keep my life thine, only thine, My soul to conscience true! O, Kindly Speak. The chiding word that chills the flow Of warm child-feeling, ere it gush In sparkling jets, to catch the glow And tinge of Life’s bright morning flush, Is the human thunder-bolt—its path Is marked by dwarfed and shrunken minds, Souls scarred, as trees by lightning scath, Which show, like them, the spoiler’s lines. He Is Risen. Crown of all our joys supernal Is the hope of life eternal; Burst in bloom ye lillies white! Wreathe the altar and the cross,— Dawn is born of brooding night, Heaven’s joy of earthly loss,— He is Risen!