IN THE DEAD HAND by Theron Brown

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Nov 28, 1892

IN THE DEAD HAND.

By Theron Brown

BY THERON BROWN.

They tell the tale unsmiling, Old men their hours beguiling As they can; Each annual November They sadden who remember Inkerman.

Yet of all that field one story Shines through the gloom and glory Of that fight; Over the cannon's roaring There sings a lark song, soaring Out of sight.

Aloof, where men lay bleeding, In fatal pain, whose pleading Made no cry, Shot pierced and saber smitten, A young and gallant Briton Crept to die.

At sunset there they found him, With the red snow around him, And his hand Laid on the book whose healing All hearts, to heaven appealing, Understand.

And 'neath his frozen fingers Those words whose hope outlingers Human strife Glowed like a star's reflection, "I am the resurrection And the life."

Comrades to burial bore him, But not death's rending tore him From his prize, For to his hand caressing Still clung the leaf whose blessing Closed his eyes.

O Christian song supernal, Words sweetest love eternal Ever said. Peace at your call comes flying, And they who clasp you dying Are not dead.

—Selected.