 | [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
THE GREAT QUESTION.
“How are the dead raised up, and with what body do they come?”
The waves, they are wildly heaving,
And bearing me out from the shore,
And I know of the things I am leaving,
But not of the things before.
O Lord of love, whom the shape of a dove
Came down and hovered o'er,
Descend to-night with heavenly light,
And show me the farther shore.
And bearing me out from the shore,
230
But not of the things before.
O Lord of love, whom the shape of a dove
Came down and hovered o'er,
Descend to-night with heavenly light,
And show me the farther shore.
There is midnight darkness o'er me,
And 't is light, more light, I crave;
The billows behind and before me
Are gaping, each with a grave:
Descend to-night, O Lord of might,
Who died our souls to save;
Descend to-night, my Lord, my Light,
And walk with me on the wave!
And 't is light, more light, I crave;
The billows behind and before me
Are gaping, each with a grave:
Descend to-night, O Lord of might,
Who died our souls to save;
Descend to-night, my Lord, my Light,
And walk with me on the wave!
My heart is heavy to breaking
Because of the mourners' sighs,
For they cannot see the awak'ning,
Nor the body with which we arise.
Thou, who for sake of men didst break
The awful seal of the tomb—
Show them the way into life, I pray,
And the body with which we come!
Because of the mourners' sighs,
For they cannot see the awak'ning,
Nor the body with which we arise.
Thou, who for sake of men didst break
The awful seal of the tomb—
Show them the way into life, I pray,
And the body with which we come!
Comfort their pain and pining
For the nearly wasted sands,
With the many mansions shining
In the house not made with hands:
And help them by faith to see through death
To that brighter and better shore,
Where they never shall weep who are fallen asleep
And never be sick any more.
For the nearly wasted sands,
With the many mansions shining
In the house not made with hands:
And help them by faith to see through death
To that brighter and better shore,
Where they never shall weep who are fallen asleep
And never be sick any more.
| [Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |