How doth death speak of our beloved
When it has laid them low,
When it has set its hallowing touch
On speechless lip and brow?
It clothes their every gift and grace
With radiance from the holiest place,
With light as from an angel's face,
Recalling with resistless force
And tracing to their hidden source
Deeds scarcely noticed in their course--
This little loving fond device,
That daily act of sacrifice,
Of which too late we learned the price.
Opening our weeping eyes to trace
Simple unnoticed kindnesses,
Forgotten tones of tenderness,
Which evermore to us must be
Sacred as hymns in infancy
Learnt listening at a mother's knee.
Thus doth death speak of our beloved
When it has laid them low.
Then let love antedate the work of death,
And speak thus now.
* * * * *
How does death speak of our beloved
When it has laid them low,
When it has set its hallowing touch
On speechless lip and brow?
It sweeps their faults with heavy hand
As sweeps the sea the trampled sand,
Till scarce the faintest print is scanned.
It shows how much the vexing deed
Was but a generous nature's weed
Or some choice virtue run to seed;
How that small fretting fretfulness
Was but love's overanxiousness,
Which had not been had love been less;
This failing at which we repined
But the dim shade of day declined
Which should have made us doubly kind.
It takes each failing on our part
And brands it in upon the heart
With caustic power and cruel art.
The small neglect that may have pained
A giant stature will have gained
When it can never be explained;
The little service which had proved
How tenderly we watched and loved,
And those mute lips to smiles had moved;
The little gift from out our store
Which might have cheered some cheerless hour
When they with earth's poor needs were poor.
It shows our faults like fires at night;
It sweeps their failings out of sight;
It clothes their good in heavenly light.
O Christ, our life, foredate the work of death
And do this now;
Thou, who art love, thus hallow our beloved;
Not death, but Thou!
--Elizabeth Rundle Charles.
God gives each man one life, like a lamp, then gives
That lamp due measure of oil: Lamp lighted--hold high, wave wide,
Its comfort for others to share!
--Muleykeh.