XI.
THE DEATH OF A BELIEVER.
Acts xii.
The Apostle slept,—a light shone in the prison,—
An angel touched his side,
“Arise,” he said, and quickly he hath risen,
His fettered arms untied.
The watchers saw no light at midnight gleaming,—
They heard no sound of feet;
The gates fly open, and the saint still dreaming
Stands free upon the street.
So when the Christian's eyelid droops and closes
In Nature's parting strife,
A friendly angel stands where he reposes
To wake him up to life.
He gives a gentle blow, and so releases
The spirit from its clay;
From sin's temptations, and from life's distresses,
He bids it come away.
It rises up, and from its darksome mansion
It takes its silent flight,
And feels its freedom in the large expansion
Of heavenly air and light.
Behind, it hears Time's iron gates close faintly,—
It is now far from them,
For it has reached the city of the saintly,
The new Jerusalem.
A voice is heard on earth of kinsfolk weeping
The loss of one they love;
But he is gone where the redeemed are keeping
A festival above.
The mourners throng the ways, and from the steeple
The funeral-bell tolls slow;
But on the golden streets the holy people
Are passing to and fro;
And saying as they meet, “Rejoice! another
Long-waited-for is come;
The Saviour's heart is glad, a younger brother
Hath reached the Father's home!”
