6.
“For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are
not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.”
Hues fair as those which evening skies illume
Lie hidden in the seed, till, fed with dew
And foster'd by sunbeams, they come to view.
Lock'd once in treasury of that dark tomb,
Wherein they buried lay as in the womb;
Now in fresh being, beautiful and new,
They hang above the spot from whence they grew.
Thus martyr-souls, from the o'erwhelming gloom
Which wrapt awhile their awful going hence,
In pity beyond human utterance,
May now in tearful beauty hang their head,
'Mid graces which are heavenly, yet of earth.
For from the grave where sorrow made her bed
Are all the virtues of our second birth.
