She is Not Dead, But Sleepeth

Like a young flower of early May,
That children pluck and leave to die,
The ruler's little daughter lay,
With cold pale cheeks and sunken eye.
Out-stretch'd upon the little bed,
Where oft she slumber'd calm and light,
They left the maiden stiff and dead;
No faded blossom half so white.

The childless mother weepeth sore,
The mourners make a louder moan;
But Christ has pass'd the chamber door,
And chid the mourners' scoffing tone.
The hand that clothes the hawthorn tree,
When spring returns to deck the plain,
Gives warm and bright that human flower
Back to her mother's breast again.

O, work of joy! O, work of love!
He holds her hand, He bids her rise,
Her lip grows red, the eyelids move,
The child looks up with wondering eyes.
Then who should fear a dying bed,
Or who in hopeless sorrow weep,
Since Jesus stands beside His dead,
And whispers soft, " They do but sleep. "
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