p. 1 | THE BURIAL OF MOSES

Publishing Committee · Battle Creek, Mich. · Nov 20, 1860

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

“And He buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day.” Deut. xxxiv, 6.

By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab There lies a lonely grave; And no man dug the sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er: For the angels of God upturn'd the sod, And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral, That ever passed on earth; But no man heard the tramping, Or saw the train go forth. Noiselessly as the daylight Comes when the night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek, Grows into the great sun!

Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves: So, without sound of music, Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain's crown The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle On gray Beth-peor's height, Out of his rocky eyry, Look'd on the wondrous sight. Perchance the lion, stalking, Still shuns that hallow'd spot; For beasts and birds have seen and heard That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war, With arms reversed and muffled drum, Follow the funeral car. They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won: And after him lead his masterless steed, While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land Men lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honor'd place, With costly marble dress'd, In the great minster transept, Where lights like glories fall; And the choir sings, and the organ rings, Along the emblazon'd wall.

This was the bravest warrior That ever buckled sword; This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philosopher Traced with his golden pen On the deathless page, truth half so sage As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor? The hill-side for his pall, To lie in state while angels wait, With stars for tapers tall; And the dark rock pines like tossing plumes Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand, in that lonely land, To lay him in the grave.

In that deep grave without a name, Whence his uncoffin'd clay, Shall break again—most wondrous thought! Before the judgment-day; And stand with glory wrapped around, On the hill he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life With the incarnate Son of God.

O lonely tomb in Moab's land! O dark Beth-peor's hill; Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still. God hath his mysteries of grace, Ways that we cannot tell; He hides them deep—like the secret sleep Of him He loved so well.