Author: Jeremiah Eames Rankin
Publisher: Forgotten Books
Published: 2016-09-08
Total Pages: 22
ISBN-13: 9781333520915
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Excerpt from The Voice of the Innocent Blood: A Sermon Preached in the First Congregational Church, Washington, D. C., National Thanksgiving Day, November 25, 1880 But this was not enough. There was a man, the highest of us all; a great-hearted, tender-eyed, patient, suffering one; a man who had come to his work sadly, tremblingly, prayerfully; who had said on his way here to the capital, that if going forward in the cause of freedom required the shedding of his own heart's blood, he was ready for it; there was a man whom the nation had been taught to trust and love and revere as its Chief Execu tive; it pleased God to take him also, his great work consum mated, the sword of the rebellion surrendered; to take him from the Pisgah height where he only saw the promised land; to take him, the nation's twice chosen Head, in the very ush of our vic tory, with the words of clemency on his lips; to exact his heart's blood, and this was God's word of reply to the men - Northern men - who had put their Executive signature to such enactments as the Fugitive Slave Bill and the Act repealing the Mis souri Compromise, though the hand of our dead President had been set to the Proclamation of Emancipation. And when that funeral car made its long procession to Illinois, with the nation's greatest men as pall-bearers, and the hearts of the whole people nay, of the whole civilized world - following it as mourners, we knew the full meaning of Mr. Lincoln's prophetic words. It was the Avenger Of blood at the Executive Mansion. His sword had smitten low our highest one. O captain, my captain, our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rock, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all are cheering, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grandly nearing. But, 0 heart! Heart! Heart! 0 the bleeding drops of red, Where, on the deck, my captain lies, Fallen, cold and dead! O captain, my captain, rise up and hear the bells; Rise up, for you the ag is ung, for you the bugle swells, For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths, for you the shores are yearning, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning. Here, Captain! Dear father! This arm beneath your head It is some dream, that on deck, You've fallen, cold and dead! About the Publisher Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works."
