At Lincoln's Tomb
by Everett McKinley Dirksen
On the night of Good Friday, 1865, he left us
to join a blessed procession, in neither doubt
nor fear, but his soul does indeed go
marching on. For this was the Bible-reading
lad come out of wilderness, following a
prairie star, filled with wonder at the world
and its Maker, who all his life, boy and man,
not only knew the Twenty-third Psalm but,
more importantly, knew the Shepherd.
Now it seems possible that we shall never
see his like again. This is a sobering thought,
but it should be a kindling one, for upon us
now, as a people and a party, has been laid
perhaps the greatest responsibility any nation
was ever asked to shoulder, yet certainly not
greater than we can bear.
Our days are no longer than were Lincoln's, our nights are no darker, and if there
is any difference between his time and this it
lies in the tremendous advantage that is ours,
that he stood so tall before us. In such a time
and at such a moment we surely can say then,
from hopeful, brimful hearts:
We are standing, Father Abraham, devoted
millions strong, firm in the faith that was
yours and is ours, secure in the conviction
bequeathed by you to us that right does make
might and that if we but dare to do our duty
as we understand it, we shall not only
survive
--we shall prevail.
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