Break from his throne, illustrious morn!
Attend, O, earth, his sov’reign word;
Restore thy trust; a glorious form
Shall then arise to meet the Lord.”
Again that childless widow raised her voice,
And sang the funeral song. The strength she had:
Was not her own—it came from God himself.
For like a vine deprived of its support,
She shot new tendrils forth, and clasp’d them round
Th’ almighty arm of God, reach’d down from Heaven.