In Memory of Father John O'Brien, C. SS. R.
How short is life, a flitting cloud
Before the blast.
The storm wind roars, the thunder rolls
Then, peace at last.
Oh! Brother, life to thee was short;
A summer's morn
A floweret blooming in the sun,
Then, left forlorn.
Thy heart was fired with zealous love,
Thy courage high.
But list! Thy Captain softly calls
And thou must die.
No more thou'lt lead His forces on
To victory grand;
No more thou'lt join with beating heart
That glorious band.
Thou'rt fallen on the battle field
With burnished arms.
O soldier, sleep in peace, secure
From war's alarms.
O glorious life! Thy heart was free
From aught of earth,
From glittering gold, or bauble fair
Of little worth.
Thy gaze was fixed on Heaven's courts,
Thy heart's desire
On Calvary's top where Jesus burnt
In love's fierce fire.
O noble champion of the cross,
Thy course is run.
Like heaven's light, thy soul returns
To heaven's Sun.
O beauteous death! No worldly grief
Is blustering there,
The Church's voice, her tender plaint
Scents all the air.
How sweet to die, when voice of prayer
Doth rend the skies.
Released from earth, the soul ascends
In glad surprise.
And what is left? The house of clay
Where dwelt the soul.
That temple grand, where hymns to God
Did often roll.
Ah! guard it well, its blessed walls
Will rise again.
Again the soul in heaven will chant
Its glad refrain.
His tomb will blossom fair with flowers—
A mother's tears.
In memory's halls, his name will live
Through countless years.
Sleep on, brave soldier, sleep
And take thy rest.
Like John thou sleepest now
On Jesus' breast.