The Lyre Harp
A strain upon a lyre harp
sweeps a sound so low
That only those who gather round
Can catch its sweetness flow,
A strain which takes all suffering
A woman’s heart seems torn
A tune of seeming martyrdom
For her son she mourns
A strain of sadness at the tomb
She searches for her dead
An angel pointing to the skies
Which dawns a crimson red
A strain upon twelve tender hearts
Who sit in…
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