One tiny hand amid his curls is lying
Over the blue-veined temple—and his face,
Pale as the water-lily, shows no trace
Of passion or of tears. The pang of dying
Left not its record on the beautiful clay,
And—but the flush of life is stolen away—
Well might we deem he slept. His ruby lip
Weareth its freshness yet—and see! a smile
Lingers around his mouth, as all the while
The spirit with the clay held fellowship!
And this is Death!—his terrors laid aside,
How like a guardian-angel doth he come
To bear the sinless spirit to its home—
The sheltering bosom of the CRUCIFIED!
