Blessed are they that mourn.”
The gentle tones,
A moment faltering, then strong and sweet,
Ring out upon the morning air. The throng
Wait silently, lest by a whispered sigh
Or quick-drawn breath a word should fall unheard
From Him, the wonderful, the Prince of Peace.
“Blessed”—the widow, shuddering, draws more close
Her sombre draperies, and bows her head
In agony of dumb and hopeless grief.
—“Are they that mourn!” A dry, half-stifled sob
Bursts from a gray-haired man; ’twas yesterday
They buried all most dear to him on earth,
And sun and stars were blotted out. Hot tears
Fall thickly on his knotted, sunburnt hands,
And still he listens to that strange, sweet voice.
“Blessed are they that mourn.” What aching hearts
Among the eager, silent multitude
Cry out in bitter anguish that His words
Are vain and mocking!
Lo, the Saviour turns
With infinite compassion in His eye,
And stretching forth His hands as though to give
The blessing He has promised, speaks again:
“They shall be comforted!”
The morning sun
Breaks forth in triumph from the heavy clouds
That hid His face. The waves of Galilee,
Gleaming far distant in the misty east,
Cast off the shroud of night. The air is full
Of waking glory. But of all who feel
The gladness and the freshness of the morn,
Those only who have passed through deepest gloom
Receive the fulness of that new, sweet peace
His words have given,—and they are comforted!