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SHALL THE DEAD PRAISE THEE?
- I
- can not praise Thee. By his instrument
The organ-master sits, nor moves a hand;
For see the organ pipes o'erthrown and bent,
Twisted and broke, like corn-stalks tempest-fanned!
- I
- well could praise Thee for a flower, a dove;
But not for life that is not life in me;
Not for a being that is less than love--
A barren shoal half-lifted from a sea,
And for the land whence no wind bloweth ships,
And all my living dead ones thither blown--
Rather I'd kiss no more their precious lips,
Than carry them a heart so poor and prone.
Yet I do bless Thee Thou art what Thou art,
That Thou dost know Thyself what Thou dost know--
- A
- perfect, simple, tender, rhythmic heart,
Beating Thy blood to all in bounteous flow.
And I can bless Thee too for every smart,
For every disappointment, ache, and fear;
For every hook Thou fixest in my heart,
For every burning cord that draws me near.
But prayer these wake, not song. Thyself I crave.
Come Thou, or all Thy gifts away I fling.
Thou silent, I am but an empty grave;
Think to me, Father, and I am a king.
Then, like the wind-stirred bones, my pipes shall quake,
The air burst, as from burning house the blaze;
And swift contending harmonies shall shake
Thy windows with a storm of jubilant praise.
Thee praised, I haste me humble to my own--
Then love not shame shall bow me at their feet,
Then first and only to my stature grown,
Fulfilled of love, a servant all-complete.
At first the minister seemed scarcely to listen, as he sat with closed
eyes and knitted brows, but gradually the wrinkles disappeared like
ripples, an expression of repose supervened, and when the draper lifted
his eyes at the close of his reading, there was a smile of quiet
satisfaction on the now aged-looking countenance. As he did not open his
eyes, Drew crept softly from the room, saying to Dorothy as he left the
house, that she must get him to bed as soon as possible. She went to
him, and now found no difficulty in persuading him. But something, she
could not tell what, in his appearance, alarmed her, and she sent for
the doctor. He was not at home, and had expected to be out all night.
She sat by his bedside for hours, but at last, as he was quietly asleep,
ventured to lay herself on a couch in the room. There she too fell fast
asleep, and slept till morning, undisturbed.
When she went to his bedside, she found him breathing softly, and
thought him still asleep. But he opened his eyes, looked at her for a
moment fixedly, and then said:
"Dorothy, child of my heart! things may be very different from what we
have been taught, or what we may of ourselves desire; but every
difference will be the step of an ascending stair--each nearer and
nearer to the divine perfection which alone can satisfy the children of
a God, alone supply the poorest of their cravings."
She stooped and kissed his hand, then hastened to get him some food.
When she returned, he was gone up the stair of her future, leaving
behind him, like a last message that all was well, the loveliest smile
frozen upon a face of peace. The past had laid hold upon his body; he
was free in the Eternal. Dorothy was left standing at the top of the
stair of the present.
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