There is a le­gend some­where told
Of how the sky­lark came of old
To the dy­ing Sav­ior’s cross,
And circ­ling round that form of pain
Poured forth a wild, la­ment­ing strain,
As if for hu­man loss.

Pierced by those ac­cents of des­pair,
Upon the tiny mourn­er there
Turning His fad­ing eyes,
The Sav­ior said, “Dost thou so mourn
And is thy fra­gile breast so torn,
That man, thy bro­ther, dies?

“O’er all the world up­lift­ed high,
We are alone here, thou and I;
And near to Hea­ven and thee
I bless thy pi­ty-guid­ed wings!
I bless thy voice—the last that sings
Love’s re­qui­em for Me.

Sorrow no more shall fill thy song;
These frail and flut­ter­ing wings grown strong,
Thou shalt no long­er fly
Earth’s cap­tive—nay, but bold­ly dare
The az­ure vault, and up­ward bear,
Thy trans­ports to the sky!

Soon passed the Sav­ior; but the lark,
Close hov­er­ing near Him in the dark,
Could not his grief abate;
And nigh the watch­ers at the tomb,
Still mourned through days of grief and gloom,
With note dis­con­so­late.

But when to those sad mourn­ers came,
In rose and am­ethyst and flame,
The Dawn Mi­ra­cu­lous,
Song in which sor­row had no part,
Burst from the lark’s tri­um­phant heart—
Sweet and tu­mul­tu­ous!

An in­stant, as with rap­ture blind,
He fal­tered; then, his Lord to find,
Straight to the eth­er flew—
Rising where falls no hu­man tear,
Singing where still his song we hear
Piercing the up­per blue!

Florence Earle Coates (1850–1927)