“BLESSED.”

“Blessed are they that mourn.” The gentle tones, A moment faltering, then strong and sweet, Ring out upon the morning air. The throng Wait silently, lest by a whispered sigh Or quick-drawn breath a word should fall unheard From Him, the wonderful, the Prince of Peace. “Blessed”—the widow, shuddering, draws more close Her sombre draperies, and bows her head In agony of dumb and hopeless grief. —“Are they that mourn!” A dry, half-stifled sob Bursts from a gray-haired man; ’twas yesterday They buried all most dear to him on earth, And sun and stars were blotted out. Hot tears Fall thickly on his knotted, sunburnt hands, And still he listens to that strange, sweet voice. “Blessed are they that mourn.” What aching hearts Among the eager, silent multitude Cry out in bitter anguish that His words Are vain and mocking! Lo, the Saviour turns With infinite compassion in His eye, And stretching forth His hands as though to give The blessing He has promised, speaks again: “They shall be comforted!” The morning sun Breaks forth in triumph from the heavy clouds That hid His face. The waves of Galilee, Gleaming far distant in the misty east, Cast off the shroud of night. The air is full Of waking glory. But of all who feel The gladness and the freshness of the morn, Those only who have passed through deepest gloom Receive the fulness of that new, sweet peace His words have given,—and they are comforted!