OUR ANGEL

Upon a couch all robed by careful hands
   For her repose the maiden Mabel lies
Her long bright hair is braided in smooth bands--
   A mass of stranded gold that mortal eyes

May, wandering, gaze upon a little while;
   That mortal hands may touch a few times more.
Her placid lips part in a sweet faint smile;
   And if the glories of that mystic shore

When first they fell upon her spirit eyes--
   All the rare splendor of that unseen way--
Had touched her with a wondering glad surprise,
   And left the pleased expression on her clay.

Her two fair hands are crossed upon her breast--
   Two shapes of wax, upon a drift of snow.
And they have robed her peaceful rest,
   Not in that hateful shroud--that sign of woe,

But in that garb we loved to see her wear;
   A dark blue robe, fashioned by her hand.
I wonder, as I see her lying there,
   If God will give her spirit in His land

Another shape. She could not be more fair.
   I think He will not change her form, or face,
But with the same long rippling golden hair
   She will kneel down before the throne of grace,

And wipe God's feet; and her dark eyes will raise
   Up to Christ's face, and touch Him with her hand,
And will with her own sweet voice sing God's praise
   And still be fairest in the Angel band.

Poems of reflection. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, M.A. Donohue & company [c1905].


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