The Sleep of the Master

All day the Shep­herd sought the sheep

And called them home to rest;

His pierc­èd head now pil­lowed lies

On earth’s green

gen­tle breast.

At least

she loved Him as her child

And did her mak­er hail;

For in His hour of ang­uished pain

Her ve­ry sun grew pale.

He trod her thor­ni­est

drea­ry ways

With foot­prints traced in blood;

He knew the guer­don wait­ing Him—

The nails and cross of wood!

To see God thus

the ho­ly ones

In low­ly rev­er­ence bow;

But His own breth­ren mark­èd not

The glo­ry round His brow.

He bears long years of toil and pain

And pays for them the price;

He pours at last His life blood out

To crown the sac­ri­fice.

Now for a space the earth He made

Holds Him in her em­brace;

While soft white wings of an­gels round

Guard well the ho­ly place.

Soon will He wak­en. Night speeds fast

The gold­en day is near;

The east­ern sky is glow­ing now

And signs of dawn ap­pear!

A ray of Heav­en’s glo­ry bright

Pierces death’s dark

an­cient pri­son;

The an­gels fold their pin­ions now

And whis­per

He is ris’n.