Li — The Voice in Ramah
“Rachel Weeping for Her Children, and Would Not He Comforted, Because They Were Not”
We have heard the voice in Ramah,
The grief in the days of yore,
When the beautiful “flowers of the martyrs”
Went to bloom on another shore.
The light of our life is darkness,
And with sorrow we are not done;
For thine is the bitterest mourning,
Mourning for an only son!
And what shall I utter to comfort
The heart that is dearest of all?
Too young for the losses and crosses,
Too young for the rise and the fall?
O, yes; we own it, we own it;
But not too young for the grace
That was so nameless and blameless,
For the yearning and tender embrace!
He hung, he hung on thy bosom
In that happiest, weariest hour,
A dear little bird to its blossom,
The beautiful, dutiful flower.
And thus he grew by its sweetness,
He grew by its sweetness so
That smile unto smile responded—
But a little while ago!
And you and I were happy
In many a vision fair
Of a ripe and glorious manhood
Which the world and we should share.
In a little while the patter
Of two little feet was heard;
And many a look it cheered us,
A look that was more than a word.
In a little while he uttered
The words we longed to hear;
And mamma and papa blessed him
With a blessing of hope and fear.
In a little while he budded,
A bud of the promising Spring,
And O for the beautiful blossom,
And O for the fruit it will bring!
The joy, they never may know it
Who never have parents been,
The joy of a swelling bosom,
With a growing light within:
A light that is soft and tender,
And growing in strength and grace,
Which wreathes a form that is slender
And glows in a dear little face!
But life it knoweth the shadow,
The shadow as well as the shine;
For the one it follows the other,
And both together are thine.
For the bud it never unfolded,
The light it flickered away,
And whose is the power to utter
The grief of that bitterest day?
His form is yet before me,
With the fair and lofty brow,
And the day since last we kissed it—
Is it long since then and now?
Dearest, it seems but a minute,
Though Winter has spread the snow,
Meek purity’s mantle to cover
The one that is resting below.
In the acre of God, that is yonder,
And unto the west his head,
He sleepeth the sleep untroubled,
With one to watch at his bed.
For the bright and guardian angel
Who beholdeth the Father’s face,
Doth stand as a sentinel watching
O’er the dear one’s resting-place;
Doth stand as a sentinel guarding
The dust of the precious dead,
Till at length the trumpet soundeth,
When the years of the world are sped;
And the throng which can not be numbered
Put on their garments of white,
And gird themselves for the glory
Of a realm that hath no night.
And so he is gone, the darling,
And the dream so fair and vain,
Whose light has faded to darkness,
We shall never dream again!
Never? Is the earth the limit
To bright and beautiful hope?
If the world brings not fruition,
Must we in darkness grope?
O no! There is expectation
Which the grave can not control;
There is boundless infinite promise
For the living and deathless soul.
And the darling who left us early
May yonder grow a man;
In deeds of the great hereafter
He may take his place in the van.
O, if thine is the bitterest mourning,
Mourning for an only son,
Believe that in God, the Giver,
Our darling his course begun;
Believe that in God, the Taker,
His course forever will be;
For this is the blessed comfort,
The comfort for thee and me.
Yea, this is the blessed comfort
In sorrow like that of yore,
When the beautiful “flowers of the martyrs”
Went to bloom on another shore.