Snowflakes Part 3

THE FIRST EASTER DAWN.

The night is past, the thunder's roar In distance dies away; And in the east, a gleam of light Foretells the coming day;

And women, bearing spices sweet, Are hast'ning on their way Toward that tomb, so dark and deep, Where Jesus' body lay.

"But who," these faithful women ask, And pause upon their way,-- "When we have reached our Master's tomb, Who'll roll the stone away?"

At last they reach the hallowed spot,-- The tomb that Joseph made, Wherein, three days before, their loved And loving Lord was laid.

The glory of the golden sun Fills budding woods with light, The morning dewdrops sparkle on The Easter lilies white.

Sweet odor from the hyacinth Upon the breeze is borne; All nature now proclaims with joy, "It is the world's first morn!"

The women stand beside the tomb In deep surprise and fear; For lo! the stone is rolled away-- Their Master is not there.

Impulsive Mary Magdalene Stays not, but hastens on That she may tell the wondrous news To Peter and to John.

She tells them and they come with her Unto the hallowed place, And find it just as she has said-- Of Jesus there's no trace.

Then silently they turn and go Each on his way--save one; 'Tis loving Mary Magdalene Who stays and weeps alone.

She's thinking now of days when friends Away from her all turned, When thoughtless Mary Magdalene By all the world was spurned.

How Jesus, in His wondrous love, Had touched her heart within, And led her into righteous paths From those of vilest sin.

And as she weeps, she stoops and looks Into the sepulcher, And sees two angels sitting there Who kindly say to her:

"Why weepest thou, oh, woman?"

And Magdalene replies, "Because they've taken away my Lord; I know not where He lies."

As Mary speaks she turns around-- Another form is there!

She thinks it is the gardener, Who kindly says to her:

"Whom seekest thou, oh, woman?

Why stand ye weeping there?"

Says Mary, "If you've borne Him hence, Oh, please, sir, tell me where."

The Saviour's loving heart is touched; (For it is He who speaks-- Her loving Lord and Master, whom So earnestly she seeks).

He draws a little closer now, That she her Lord may know, And answers only, "Mary,"

In accents soft and low.

She raises now her tearful eyes, They are no longer blind; For none but He could speak her name So tenderly and kind.

Forgetting, in her love so blind The cause for which He'd died,-- Forgetting _all_ save at His feet No harm can her betide,

With beating heart and outstretched arms She flies her Lord to greet.

"Rabboni!" then she kneels among The lilies at His feet.

He looks with tend'rest pity on That face with tears still wet, And says "You must not touch me now; I will not leave you yet.

"But by and by I will ascend Unto my G.o.d and thine; Go thou and tell, when thou dost find Those true disciples mine."

The day is spent, the lily folds Her leaves upon her breast; The violets close their dewy eyes And sweetly sink to rest.

The westland crimson glory fades From hilltop, wood, and lawn, Night's tender dews fall softly o'er The world's First Easter Dawn.

INDIA.

There's a country o'er the billows deep, As fair as fair can be; Its north is bounded by mountains high, With sunlit summits that kiss the sky, Its south by the boundless sea.

A stream flows down the mountain side, And swells to the great Ganges; Its placid depths, unknown, untold, Reflect the sunlight's orient gold, Then rest in southern seas.

The silken palms their branches wave As soft as summer sails; And drowsy winds, so pa.s.sing fair, With odors laden, strange and rare, Blow soft o'er sunbright vales.

And nestling close 'mong shelt'ring hills The bamboo huts are seen; Like golden billows fall and rise The seas of grain 'neath Indian skies, By woods of silvered green.

The date, the orange, the fig grow ripe In that golden country, where Through fragrant meads the pathways lead.

Wouldst see G.o.d's handiwork indeed?

Go view the sunset there!

'Tis veiled in clouds of splendid hue, In melting colors rare: Church domes in crimson waves are dyed, And everything seems glorified-- Thank G.o.d there are churches there!

Where once the starry heavens looked down, And wept a nation's blindness, Which knew no G.o.d to soothe its grief, And women--slaves! found no relief In love or human kindness,

Millions of homes to-day rejoice And praise our G.o.d above; Millions have learned the hymn to swell, Through missionaries, sent to tell Of Him whose name is Love.

But millions still are left in doubt, In darkness and alone; Their restless souls are wrung with grief, They find no respite or relief In heathen G.o.ds of stone.

They've never heard of Him who gave Their glorious sun-kissed sh.o.r.es; G.o.d grant that we our efforts lend To teach them of a loving Friend Whom Freedom's land adores.

Prosper, O Lord, this land of ours, So glad, so proud, so free, That we may missionaries send Till all that beauteous India land Has learned to worship Thee.

Nothing we give our Father's cause Escapes His watchful eyes; Each mite will be a jewel rare To deck the crown we'll surely wear Some day in Paradise.

WEARY.

Weary of the tumult of the town, Of the burdens and the cares that weigh me down, Of oppression, greed, and strife, Of the din of city life, Disappointments that my n.o.blest efforts crown.

Weary of the world's vain, gilded styles, Though my moments he with softest words beguiles; Though he warble ne'er so blandly, His old heart is false though friendly, For he lingers near me but when fortune smiles.