The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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November 22
AT THE GRAVE OF LAZARUS |
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The Prisoner of Love | ||
373
November 22 AT THE GRAVE OF LAZARUS
“Lazarus, come forth! And he that was dead came forth.”—
St. John xi. 43, 44.
They met above the fallen friend,
They stood across his grave;
The Shadow that no prayer would bend,
The Light that stooped to save.
For there was bound, in silent round,
Life like a frozen wave.
They stood across his grave;
The Shadow that no prayer would bend,
The Light that stooped to save.
For there was bound, in silent round,
Life like a frozen wave.
They met, and on the stricken shape
Death planted firm his feet;
Lest the poor prisoner should escape,
Loosed by that Presence sweet;
And his cold hands confirmed the bands
Of the pale winding-sheet.
Death planted firm his feet;
Lest the poor prisoner should escape,
Loosed by that Presence sweet;
And his cold hands confirmed the bands
Of the pale winding-sheet.
They met, and, lo! the gracious Form
Looked at the rival Power,
As sunshine faces a grim storm
When it hath passed its hour;
As day, through night before its flight,
Falls on an opening flower.
Looked at the rival Power,
As sunshine faces a grim storm
When it hath passed its hour;
As day, through night before its flight,
Falls on an opening flower.
They met in that unequal strife,
The spoiler and his Lord,
The dying Death, the living Life
That could not thus accord;
And, at His breath, discrownèd Death
Was slain by his own sword.
The spoiler and his Lord,
The dying Death, the living Life
That could not thus accord;
And, at His breath, discrownèd Death
Was slain by his own sword.
The Prisoner of Love | ||