To take away my dove, my lamb, my
darling!
Longfellow
A MESSENGER from the house.
Why troublest thou the Master? Hearest thou not
The flute players, and the voices of the women
Singing their lamentation? She is dead!
THE MINSTRELS AND MOURNERS.
We have girded ourselves with sackcloth!
We have covered our heads with ashes!
For our young men die, and our maidens
Swoon in the streets of the city;
And into their mother's bosom
They pour out their souls like water!
CHRISTUS, going in.
Give place. Why make ye this ado, and weep?
She is not dead, but sleepeth.
THE MOTHER, from within.
Cruel Death!
To take away front me this tender blossom!
To take away my dove, my lamb, my darling!
THE MINSTRELS AND MOURNERS.
He hath led me and brought into darkness,
Like the dead of old in dark places!
He hath bent his bow, and hath set me
Apart as a mark for his arrow!
He hath covered himself with a cloud,
That our prayer should not pass through and reach him!
THE CROWD.
He stands beside her bed! He takes her hand!
Listen, he speaks to her!
CHRISTUS, within.
Maiden, arise!
THE CROWD.
See, she obeys his voice! She stirs! She lives!
Her mother holds her folded in her arms!
