Forth from the city gate of Nain
Slow wends the funeral array,
And friends by love or pity led
Swell the procession on its way.
There from one closely shrouded form
The deep low sobs convulsive burst—
The widow mourns her only son,
And grief for her has done its worst.
The Saviour meets the sorrowing one,
And they that bear the bier stand still,
The voice of grief is hushed in awe,
And all in silence wait His will.
The “Man of Sorrows” sees her woe,
He who knew grief, for grief can feel;
Weep not, thou mourner, Christ is near,
As Man to pity, God to heal.
He speaks the word, and death obeys:
Is it the breeze that stirs the shroud?
The stiffened limbs relax, they move
With new and wondrous life endowed.
Life dawns upon the ashen cheek,
Through each cold vein life’s currents run,
The dead man rises from his bier—
The widow clasps her living son!
Oh! ye bereaved ones, whose sad tears
Some loved and lifeless form bedew,
The Eye that saw and pitied her
Looks in compassion down on you;
Although no miracle at once
Your loved one to your arms restore,
That voice which waked the widow’s son
Shall bid him live, to die no more.