Passion Flowers (Watson)/The Message

The Message.

Awake! they come, the heralds of the King;
High float their banners on exultant air.
Awake! their footfalls echo 'cross the plains,
Glad tidings of a hope divine they bear,
A message from the King.

Around the world speed answers to the call;
The hillocks green uplift them at the sound,
And list'ning tombs respond with glad acclaim:
For in their hearts, most sacred kept, are found
Dear tokens of the King.

Unbar thy gates, O Earth—the flowers loose;
They wait within thy sepulchre below,
And long to greet the morn when He arose,
To tell from perfumed lips with love aglow
How tender is the King.

In mould so pure where He has lain, they were;
'Tis hallowed, for the King did rest within;
And in the heart of every flower that blows,
A dim remembrance lives that it has been
Some time anear the King.

'Tis this that lends them subtle power to cheer,
To glad the earth-worn pilgrim, soothe his care;
Then shall we fear some day to lay us down
Where He has been, the narrow bed to share,
That held the King?

I do believe, when this poor senseless clay
Shall, wearied, court the rest profound and deep;
In blind and voiceless, but all conscious way,
It will rejoice to feel that He did sleep
Aneath the sod, our King.

I do believe, each Easter when the throng
Of heaven's heralds crowd the gladsome land;
When song and blossom and rejoicing hosts
Of spirits freed, make harmonies so grand,
They reach the King—

That it will chance, these bodies laid so low,
May somehow feel the universal thrill;
That haply in the flowers, the air, the vine,
They'll conscious live, and speak—full sure they will
Themselves soon see the King.