Classic Poem

The Church, in sable weeds of grief,
Her absent Lord laments;
And in the syllables of woe,
Her burdened feeling vents.
The Bridegroom's voice she hears not now,
In soft impassioned tone;
He passed beyond her straining sight,
To grace his Father's throne.

Ah, blame her not, as toiling on,
In more than wintry wild,
She weeps as one who mourns apart,
“His dove, his undefiled.”
Her heart within the veil is set,
Her trusting heart is there,
Where Christ the blest Forerunner pleads,
With interceding prayer.

The tabret and the harp of earth,
Grate discord on her ear,
For ashes are her beauty now,
Her solace is the tear;
While cruel mockers gather round,
And wave the iron rod,
And, filled with bitterness, exclaim,
“Ah, where is now thy God.”

Then bright the day, and blest the hour,
When Christ again shall come,
And she, His waiting Bride, the Church,
Be welcomed to her Home:
Then militant on Earth no more,
Her eye no longer dim,
The Heaven, and Heaven of Heavens, shall peal
With her espousal hymn.