The Gospel Miracles :: :: University of Virginia Library

At the Ruler's abode, in Capernaum's street,
What has summon'd yon crowd of the people to meet?
Has the voice of carousal attracted the throng;
The voice of the viol, the voice of the song;
The voice of the tabret, with dancing allied;
The voice of the bridegroom, the voice of the bride?

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Is the bride in her nuptial apparel array'd?
Do “the virgins, her fellows,” encompass the maid?
Are the lamps beaming bright with the festival blaze?
On their child do the parents exultingly gaze,
While a tear dims their eye from their lov'd one to part,
Tho' they yield her with smiles to the spouse of her heart?

Alas! 'tis no place for gay hearts to advance
The voice in the carol, the step in the dance.
No bridegroom is there, like the sun in his might,
Rejoicing to start on his circle of light:
No brightness the chamber of grief to illume:
No bridal array, but the garb of the tomb.

And there is lamenting, and mourning, and woe,
For the blossom cut off, when beginning to blow.
The minstrels are raising the funeral cry;
And with wailing “the virgins, her fellows,” reply;
And the mother with ashes her head hath defil'd,
And is rending her robe for the loss of her child.

But where is the father? I see him not there,
With his garment all rent, and besprinkled his hair.
He is gone, while yet linger'd the flickering breath,
Ere the arrow had flown from the angel of death;
He is gone, on the wings of affection, for aid
On the child of his bosom, his own little maid.

And where does he seek it? To whom does he kneel,
But to Him, who is gracious and mighty to heal?
“On the brink of the grave, lo! my daughter is laid,
The child of my bosom, my own little maid.
O hasten, O hasten, thy succour to give!
If thy hand be laid on her, my daughter shall live!”—

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“Rise, father afflicted! the arrow is sped.
Why trouble the Master? thy daughter is dead.”—
She is dead! Yet hope dances and beams in his eyes;
For, unmov'd by the tidings, the Master replies,
“Fear not, for thy daughter thou yet shalt receive,
If thy faith be unshaken! Fear not, but believe!”

He has past, the kind Master, at once thro' the crowd,
Thro' the mourners all weeping and wailing aloud:
He has bid them forbear thus to wail and to weep,
For the damsel's repose is the stillness of sleep:
And their scoffs (for they knew it was death) he has borne,
Incredulity's taunts, and the laughter of scorn.

Now cheerly, O father, thy courage sustain;
And thou, O fond mother, thy sorrow refrain.
Behold, where He stands by the side of the bed,
With his three lov'd disciples, intent on the dead:
And he takes by the hand her pale form, as she lies;
And serenely he calls to her, “Maiden, arise!”

The maiden arises! Gaze, gaze, with delight;
'Tis no dream of the mind, no deceit of the sight.
She arises, she walks! To your fondling embrace
Take the joy of your home, the sole hope of your race:
The song for her second nativity raise,
And the funeral dirge change for anthems of praise.

But stint not your praise to the blessings of earth;
This day be the dawn of an heavenly birth!
Be it yours, be it hers, in your prophets to read
The Restorer of health for your Israel decreed!
Be it yours, be it hers, Him, by prophets foretold,
In your lov'd one's Restorer to life to behold!

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Let the mercy, which wrought her revival from death,
Be your anchor of hope and your fortress of faith!
Thus calm may ye pass thro' mortality's strife,
Safe in Him, in whose hand are the issues of life:
Thus pleas'd, when He bids, your last sleep may ye take:
Thus blest, when He bids you arise, may ye wake:

Thus again from the grave your lost daughter receive,
When He comes, his last triumph o'er death to achieve:
Re-united with her, see enraptur'd again
The face of the merciful Healer of men;
And present her to Him, 'mid the angels of heaven,
“Lo, we and the child whom thy mercy hath given!”