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 cold That your belovèd have borne? Had ye ever a son like Jesus To 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 hopes That make our earth-life fair, Were born in those three bitter days Of Mary's deep despair? O mourning mothers, so many, Weeping in woe and pain, Think on the joy of Mary's heart In 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 Him Who died and is risen for you. VI DAY DAWN The dim gray dawn, upon the eastern hills, Brings back to light once more the cheerless scene; But oh! no morning in my Father's house Is dawning now, for there no night hath been. Ten thousand thousand now, on Zion's hills, All robed in white, with palmy crowns, do stray, While I, an exile, far from fatherland, Still wandering, faint along the desert way. O home! dear home! my own, my native home! O Father, friends! when shall I look on you? When shall these weary wanderings be o'er, And I be gathered back to stray no more? O Thou, the brightness of whose gracious face These weary, longing eyes have never seen,-- By whose dear thought, for whose belovèd sake, My course, through toil and tears, I daily take,-- I think of thee when the myrrh-dropping morn Steps forth upon the purple eastern steep; I think of thee in the fair eventide, When the bright-sandaled stars their watches keep. And trembling Hope, and fainting, sorrowing Love, On thy dear word for comfort doth rely; And clear-eyed Faith, with strong forereaching gaze, Beholds thee here, unseen, but ever nigh. Walking in white with thee, she dimly sees, All beautiful, these lovely ones withdrawn, With whom my heart went upward, as they rose, Like morning stars, to light a coming dawn.