Thy Dead Men Shall Live.
By Julia A. Griggs
"Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set; but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!" THE gentle wind which fans my cheek is making low sweet music on the leafy harp-strings of the tree beneath which I am sitting. Obedient to the touch of the breeze, the branches sway to and fro, and their shadows glide silently over the graves where loved ones are sleeping. I was but a little child when the first mound was made; yet never shall I forget the venerable man with white flowing locks, who used to take me upon his knee and sing of Heaven, or tell me of the saints and prophets, who then, as he supposed, dwelt in that good home. My heart was filled with wonder and delight as he portrayed the great reward of the righteous. Death is never satisfied. A few years passed away, and another precious one was torn from our grasp. With bitter mourning and tears we accompanied her to the dark valley, but love was powerless in that trying hour. Time, unmindful of our sorrows or the changes167wrought, swept onward, until another, wearied with life's conflicts, fell asleep. As the by-gone days come trooping back, all torn and blighted, through the chambers of my soul, I exclaim, Will the sleepers ever wake again? In soft, low cadence comes the answer from Holy Writ, "Thy dead men shall live!" I look at these quiet graves, overgrown with grass and flowers. I see no evidence of a resurrection. No germ of life is visible. But my faith fastens upon the sure word of the Lord. I believe the Life-Giver will wring apart the strong fetters that bind, and set Death's captives free. Looking a little way into the future, I behold the realization of the promise. I see the King of glory descending, the heavens clothed with majesty, glory and beauty inexpressible. Attended by the armies of Heaven, he comes to earth again; the same earth which long years ago witnessed his sufferings, humiliation, and death. But what a change! No longer a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. No more despised and spit upon; but, arrayed in heavenly glory, a terror to his enemies, and the admiration of his saints. Hark! the trumpet sounds. The earth is mightily shaken—the saints come forth from the gloomy grave. "Thine for a space were they;
Now dost thou yield thy treasures up at last." I hear the shouts of victory as they are caught up to meet their Lord. So vivid is the scene, that, half starting from my grassy seat, I seek to join the host redeemed. Awakened from my day-dream, I find myself alone with the whispering wind and the dead. But my heart is filled with chastened joy. Sure am I that He who sits upon the throne will not tarry long. Soon shall I behold these dear ones, upon whom the shadow of death now rests. Is it a wonder that I watch and wait for that glad day?