'And when they had sung an hymn, they went out.' THE sun hath gilded Judah's hills With his last gorgeous beam; Ghost-like the still grey mists arise From Jordan's sacred stream. The stars, bright flowers of the sky, Unfold their beauties now, And gaze on Salem's marble fane, By Olivet's dark brow. In David's city sound is hushed And tread of busy feet, For solemnly his sons have met The paschal lamb to eat. But list! the silence of the hour Is broken; the still air A melody hath caught which far Its viewless pinions bear. Unwonted sweetness hath the strain, And as its numbers flow, More tender and more touching yet Its harmony doth grow. Not royal David's tuneful harp Such thrilling power had known To wake deep echoes in the soul, As its scarce earthly tone. Within an 'upper room' are met A small, yet faithful band, On whom a deep yet chastened grief Hath laid its softening hand. Among them there is One who wears A more than mortal mein, 'Tis He on whom in all distress The weary one may lean. Mysterious sadness, on that brow So pure and calm, doth lie; And untold stores of deepest love Are beaming from His eye. What wonder if the strain was sweet Above all other lays? Seraphic well might seem the hymn Which Jesu's voice did raise. The angels hush their lyres, and bend To hear the thrilling tone, And heaven is silent,—with that song They mingle not their own. The sorrowing ones around have heard Their blessèd Master tell, That He with them no longer now As heretofore may dwell. And they have sadly shared with Him The last, last evening meal, And heard the last sweet comfort which Their mourning hearts may heal. They do not know the fearful storm Which on His head must burst; They know not all—He hath not told His loving ones the worst. How could He? E'en an angel's mind Could never comprehend The weight of woe, 'neath which for us The Saviour's head must bend; Ere long the voice, which waketh now Such touching melody, Shall cry 'My God, My God, oh why Hast Thou forsaken Me?' The hour is come; but ere they meet Its terrors,—yet once more Their voices blend with His who sang As none e'er sang before. Why do they linger on that note? Why thus the sound prolong? Ah! 'twas the last! 'Tis ended now, That strangely solemn song. And forth they go:—the song is past; But, like the rose-leaf, still, Whose fragrance doth not die away, Its soft low echoes thrill Through many a soul, and there awake New strains of glowing praise To Him who, on that fateful eve, That last sweet hymn did raise. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PRE-EXISTENCE by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE CACOETHES SCRIBENDI by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES THE DISMANTLED SHIP by WALT WHITMAN AT BAY RIDGE, LONG ISLAND by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH EPIGRAM: 19. NICOTELES by CALLIMACHUS THE DWELLING-PLACE by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE |