Oh, mother heart, heavy with sorrow at the gates of Nain,
How swiftly was that sorrow turned to joy,
When at the Master's touch, your son, called dead,
Arose and spoke again—your only boy!
With what divine compassion Jesus spake
To you, "Weep not," then came and touched the bier,
And they that bore your son away stood still—
Death's bearers ever halt when Christ draws near—
What joy, when at the Master's ringing words,
Uttered with power—Young man, I say, Arise!
Straightway your boy arose, loosed to your arms,
And gazed with love into your shining eyes!
Oh, mother heart, what holy joy to gain
This glimpse of heaven at the gates of Nain!
Ye saddened heart, bearing a bier where hope deceased
is laid,
With deadened faith and inspiration sere,
Love's messenger is waiting at the gates,
And will with tender fingers touch your bier,
Saying, "Arise"! And at that holy call
Hope will then spring to life, and faith revive,
And inspiration resurrected will,
Like rain-kissed grasses, fresh and verdant thrive;
And those unholy thoughts of doubt and fear,
Which sought to bury faith, will then stand still;
While you, encircled in the arms of Love,
Will rest secure, safeguarded from all ill;
Then, happy heart, you too the joy will gain
Felt by that mother-heart at gates of Nain.
