Life's best things gather round its close To light it from the door;
When woman's aid no further goes, She weeps and loves the more.
She doubted oft, feared for his life, Yea, feared his mission's loss; But now she shares the losing strife, And weeps beside the cross.
The dreaded hour is come at last, The sword hath reached her soul; The hour of tortured hope is past, And gained the awful goal.
There hangs the son her body bore, The limbs her arms had prest! The hands, the feet the driven nails tore Had lain upon her breast!
He speaks; the words how faintly brief, And how divinely dear!
The mother's heart yearns through its grief Her dying son to hear.
"Woman, behold thy son.--Behold Thy mother." Blessed hest
That friend to her torn heart to fold Who understood him best!
Another son--ah, not instead!-- He gave, lest grief should kill, While he was down among the dead, Doing his father's will.
No, not instead! the coming joy Will make him hers anew;
More hers than when, a little boy, His life from hers he drew.