Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, IN HEAVEN, by THOMAS WESTWOOD

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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

IN HEAVEN, by                 Poet's Biography
First Line: Silence filled the courts of heaven
Last Line: "thy will, o lord, be done!"
Subject(s): Death - Children; Heaven; Death - Babies; Paradise

SILENCE filled the courts of heaven,
Hushed were seraphs' harp and tone,
When a little new-born cherub
Knelt before the Eternal Throne;
While its soft white hands were lifted,
Clasped as if in earnest prayer,
And its voice in dove-like murmurs
Rose like music on the ear.
Light from the full fount of glory
On his robe of whiteness glistened,
And the white-winged seraphs near him
Bowed their radiant heads and listened.

"Lord, from thy throne of glory here
My heart turns fondly to another;
O Lord my God, the Comforter,
Comfort, comfort my sweet mother!
Many sorrows hast thou sent her,—
Meekly has she drained the cup,
And the jewels thou hast lent her
Unrepining yielded up.
Comfort, comfort my sweet mother!

"Earth is growing lonely round her;
Friend and lover hast thou taken;
Let her not, though woes surround her,
Feel herself by thee forsaken.
Let her think, when faint and weary,
We are waiting for her here;
Let each loss that makes earth dreary
Make the hope of Heaven more dear.
Comfort, comfort my sweet mother!

"Thou who once, in nature human,
Dwelt on earth a little child,
Pillowed on the breast of woman,
Blessèd Mary undefiled;
Thou who, from the cross of suffering,
Marked thy mother's tearful face,
And bequeathed her to thy loved one,
Bidding him to fill thy place,—
Comfort, comfort my sweet mother!

"Thou who once, from heaven descending,
Tears and woes and conflicts won;
Thou who, nature's laws suspending,
Gav'st the widow back her son;
Thou who at the grave of Lazarus
Wept with those who wept their dead;
Thou who once in mortal anguish
Bowed thine own anointed head,—
Comfort, comfort my sweet mother!"

The dove-like murmurs died away
Upon the radiant air;
But still the little suppliant knelt
With hands still clasped in prayer.
Still were those mildly pleading eyes
Turned to the sapphire throne,
Till golden harp and angel voice
Rang forth in mingled tone.
And as the swelling numbers flowed,
By angel voices given,
Rich, sweet, and clear, the anthem rolled
Through all the courts of heaven:
"He is the widow's God," it said,
"Who spared not his OWN SON."
The infant cherub bowed its head:
"Thy will, O Lord, be done!"

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