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59
THE FIRST MOURNERS.
Alas! alas! our son is slain;—
'T is Abel's form, struck down by Cain!
How still! how cold! no pulse,—no breath!
We ate the fruit;—and this is death!
'T is Abel's form, struck down by Cain!
How still! how cold! no pulse,—no breath!
We ate the fruit;—and this is death!
The blood hath marred those temples fair,
And drenched their locks of sunny hair;
It stains the grass and flowers around,—
Its voice is crying from the ground!
And drenched their locks of sunny hair;
It stains the grass and flowers around,—
Its voice is crying from the ground!
His lamb yet on the altar lies,
Received of God a sacrifice:
While bright the morn, and sweet the air,
His hymn is hushed, and ceased his prayer.
Received of God a sacrifice:
While bright the morn, and sweet the air,
His hymn is hushed, and ceased his prayer.
The fleecy flock, for him to lead,
Around him bleat, and wait to feed;
But dark his eye,—his call is o'er,—
Their tender shepherd theirs no more.
Around him bleat, and wait to feed;
But dark his eye,—his call is o'er,—
Their tender shepherd theirs no more.
We now must rend earth's breast, and lay,
In her damp clods, our child away:
Ah! bitter woe, to thus begin
In him the death, when ours the sin!
In her damp clods, our child away:
Ah! bitter woe, to thus begin
In him the death, when ours the sin!
60
O, where is he, oppressed with guilt,
Whose hand a brother's life-stream spilt?
An exile marked,—a wanderer lone,—
And pierced by thorns that we have sown!
Whose hand a brother's life-stream spilt?
An exile marked,—a wanderer lone,—
And pierced by thorns that we have sown!
For all our race, who now can make
An offering pure, that God will take?
For we transgressed, on all to bring
The tempter serpent's mortal sting!
An offering pure, that God will take?
For we transgressed, on all to bring
The tempter serpent's mortal sting!
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