  By Nebo’s lonely mountain, On this side Jordan’s wave, In a vale in the land of Moab There lies a lonely grave; And no man knows that sepulchre, And no man saw it e’er, For the angels of God upturn’d the sod, And laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral That ever pass’d on earth; But no man heard the trampling, Or saw the train go forth— Noiselessly as the daylight Comes back when night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean’s cheek Grows into the great sun; Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves; So without sound of music, Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain’s crown, The great procession swept. Perchance the bald old eagle On gray Beth-peor’s height Out of his lonely eyrie Look’d on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion stalking Still shuns that hallow’d spot, For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not. But when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war, With arms reversed and muffled drum, Follow his funeral car; They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed, While peals the minute gun. Amid the noblest of the land, We lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honor’d place, With costly marble dressed, In the great minster transept, Where lights like glories fall, And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings, Along the emblazon’d wall. This was the truest warrior That ever buckled sword; That ever breathed a word; And never earth’s philosopher Traced with his golden pen On the deathless page truths half so sage As he wrote down for men. And had he not high honor— The hillside for a pall, To lie in state while angels wait With stars for tapers tall, And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave, And God’s own hand in that lonely land To lay him in the grave,— In that strange grave without a name, Whence his uncoffin’d clay Shall break again, O wondrous thought, Before the judgment-day, And stand with glory wrapt around On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life With the Incarnate Son of God? O lonely grave in Moab’s land! O dark Beth-peor’s hill! Speak to these curious hearts of ours God hath His mysteries of grace, Ways that we cannot tell; He hides them deep like the hidden sleep Of him He loved so well. —Cecil Frances Alexander. |
|
