A voice missed by the dear home-hearth—
A voice of music and gentle mirth—
A voice whose lingering sweetness long
Will float through many a Sabbath song,
And many a hallowed, evening hymn,
Tenderly breathed in the twilight dim!
—But that missing voice, with a richer tone,
Is heard in the anthems before the throne;
And another voice and another lyre,
Are added now to the angel-choir!
There's a missing face when the board is spread—
There's a vacant seat at the table's head,—
A watchful eye and a helpful hand
That will come no more to that broken band.
—But she sits to-day at the board above,
In the tender light of a holier love;
And the kindling eye and the beaming face
At the feast on high hold a nobler place!
A form is missed in the hour of prayer,
At the altar, now, there's an empty chair,
Where one lonely pleader hath scarcely won
Strength, e'en yet, for "Thy will be done!"
—But that missing form in its saintly dress
Of Christ's unsullied righteousness,
Bows with worshipful accents sweet,
Where angels bow at the Saviour's feet
A step is missed by the cradle bed
Where an infant nestles its sleeping head—
Smiling, perchance, in his baby rest,
Deeming his pillow her gentle breast
—But the feet that moved with a soundless tread
In the calm still night by that cradle bed,
Beyond the waters of death now stand
Mid the fadeless flowers of the Heavenly land
O heart, sore pierced by the fatal dart—
O, wounded, suffering, bleeding heart—
More than all others doomed to miss
The glance, the accent, the smile, the kiss,—
Nothing is lost that you miss to day—
Not even the beautiful, death cold clay
But Jesus guards it with watchful eye,
Soon to restore it no more to die,
Clothed in the bloom of immortal life,
The sinless mother, the sainted wife!