The minstrels crouched at an Eastern gate
And mourners thronged the way,
Silken draperies hid the couch
Where the Ruler’s daughter lay.
Into the noisy impassioned crowd
With strangely graceful mien,
Hushing its acclamations loud,
Walked Jesus, The Nazarene.
The dust of the road to His sandals clung,
The crowd parted to give Him place,
A travel stained garment about Him hung,
But compassion transfigured His face.
In their dark faces He saw His foes,
He knew their symbols of grief,
No power had they His way to opppose (sic)
Tho rank was their unbelief.
The Ruler’s daughter was waxen white
In rigid repose she lay
Awaiting the last sad burial rite . . .
A model in lifeless clay!
The silken draperies swayed and swept . . .
With pitying eyes on the harrowing scene . . .
The sorrowing friends how hopeless wept . . .
Stood Jesus, The Nazarene!
He sent them out. Over the sheeted form
In the might of His marvelous power,
He bent to clasp her fingers warm
In that strange and solemn hour.
O wondrous voice! She heard the call,
Aroused from her rigid repose!
A stronger than Death held Death in thrall . . .
To life the Maid arose!
From Green Mountain Echoes