The Dying Girl (Hymns for a Mother - II)

        Come, kindly Death!
    Dear Angel of the gentle Lord
Who loveth us, O speak, with softest breath,
    The softly musical word,
    At whose light summons stirr’d,
My darling’s soul may fly this earthly reign
        Of cruel Pain!

        With many a moan
    Wrung from the palpitating breast,
She hath hung quivering on the awful zone
    Between this death’s unrest
    And that life of the blest
Where spirits, slipp’d from the clay’s straight’ning girth,
        Re-gladden earth.

        Pale, thin and cold,
    Her bloodless hand in mine hath lain,
Save when the Torturer with his burning hold
    Clenching her quivering brain,
    Sent the hot blood again,
Boiling and purple with its freight of pangs,
        From his keen fangs.

        I sought for hope,
    But every day a strength’ning Trust
Strained up, the gates of other life to ope,
    As a Hand, dear and just,
    Shook out her hour’s light dust
From the clear crystal of her victor Soul
        Anear its goal.

        In broken beams
    Between the shattering bolts of flame,
How sweet and beautiful the childlike gleams
    Of her young spirit came,
    Lighting her tremulous frame
With a prophetic glow, too softly pure
        Long to endure.

        O God! how oft
    I begg’d that she might live with me!
How painfully my heart hath climb’d aloft
    To this high trust in Thee,
    This strong self-mastery,
Till I, by loss, can find her mine yet more
        Than e’er before!

        This gulf of fire,
    This burning barrier of keen pain,
With its strong billow flings my old desire
    Back on my heart again
    Broken and scorched and slain,
And heaves me far from her imprisoned soul
        With its sea-roll.

        O Death, I know
    Thou wilt be tender of her, there,
Where thou dost lead her, and when she may go
    Into our Father’s care,
    Our nearer souls shall wear
A closer bond, by thee made more divine
        Than earth can twine.

I thirst to feel again 
Her spirit answer me in bliss,
Wreathing me with her presence, sweeter then
    Than warmest touch or kiss
    Of the pained body is;
For soul to soul is fuller fellowship
        Than lip to lip.

        Come, gentle Death
    And bear my darling to the arm
Of our dear Lord, who dearly cherisheth
    And guardeth us from harm;
    Thy touch cannot alarm
Nor sever us, to whom thy bands will be
        Life’s Liberty!