THE LAST CHORD
by Adelaide Procter

Seated one day at the organ,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wander'd idly
Over the noisy keys;
I know not what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming then,
But I struck one chord of music,
Like the sound of a great amen,
Like the sound of a great amen.
It flooded the crimson twilight
Like the close of an angel's psalm,
And it lay on my fevor'd spirit
With a touch of infinite calm;
It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife,
It seemed the harmonious echo
Of our discordant life.
It link'd all perplexing meanings into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence,
As if it were loath to cease,
I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
The one lost chord divine,
Which came from the soul of the organ
And enter'd into mine.
It may be that death's bright angel will speak in that chord again,
It may be that only in heav'n I shall hear that grand amen.
It may be that death's bright angel will speak in that chord again,
It may be that only in heav'n I shall hear that grand amen.