Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child:
But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
Shall we behold her face.
And though, at times, impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest,—
We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay; By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Beside the dead I knelt for prayer,
And felt a presence as I prayed. Lo! it was Jesus standing there.
He smiled: "Be not afraid!"
"Lord, Thou hast conquered death we know;
Restore again to life," I said, "This one who died an hour ago."
He smiled: "She is not dead!"
"Asleep then, as thyself did say;
Yet thou canst lift the lids that keep Her prisoned eyes from ours away!"
He smiled: "She doth not sleep!"
"Nay then, tho' haply she do wake,
And look upon some fairer dawn, Restore her to our hearts that ache!"
He smiled: "She is not gone!"