[Written for the Sentinel]


And I knew that thou hearest me always!
Thus spake the blessed Master as he stood
Before the silent tomb of him he loved,
Amid the weeping women and the men
Assembled there in mourning for the dead.
Beside him Mary, whose reproachful words,
Hadst thou been here my brother had not died,
But just then uttered, still smote on his ear.
Then by the unavailing woe of those
Who round him pressed, to loving pity moved,
Within his tender heart deep sympathy
Attuned his grief to theirs, and he too wept,
Though not as they in resignation
To that last enemy whose seeming power
They in their ignorance could not dispute.
His tears were called forth by their ignorance,
Their lacking sense of ever present Love,
Which knows no death, but gives alike to all
Unending life, the Father's priceless gift.
And many there before that parched rock,
Marking his grief, in furtive whispering
Asked one the other, Since he loved him so
Why came he not in time his life to save,
For surely he who opened the blind eyes
Could e'en have held our brother back from death?
And now the Master in reliance sure
On the life-giving presence of his God,
Bade those around him take away the stone;
Whereat the tearful Martha would them stay
On plea that fell decay had time been given
Its work to do. But the all-knowing Lord,
Resisting subtle urge of mortal sense,
Held firmly to the task 'twas his to do,
Inspired by Love. And at his word the sun
Of God's eternal truth the darkling tomb
Illumed, and he who silent lay within,
By quickening ray to sense of life renewed,
All numbing fear by the loud voice dispelled,
The heavenly summons heard, and issued forth
From bondage to belief in death set free.

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