IV.
The grave—that dreary place,
Christian, the lonely dwelling in the dust
Awaits thee; 'tis the doom of all thy race,—
Where, then, shall be thy trust?
God is my refuge! Sweet will be my rest
On the dear pillow that my Saviour pressed!
V.
Alas!—that dreamless sleep—
Christian, its chains are strong, and hard to break;
All thy belov'd sleep on in silence deep,
And dost thou hope to wake?
God is my refuge! I shall wake and sing—
"O grave! where is thy vict'ry?—death thy sting?"
JUDSON'S GRAVE.
He sleeps where the billow
Lifts high its white crest
O'er his lone, sea-weed pillow
On Ocean's dark breast;
No shroud is around him,
No flowers bloom above,
No mourners surround him
With grief-drops of love.
But the limitless ocean
His requiem sings,
As, with tireless motion,
The green billow springs
Toward the infinite heaven,
Blue, bending above,
Where angels are watching
His slumbers in love.
Oh! boundless his tomb is,
Far-reaching, sublime,
Stretching forth in immenseness
To every clime;
Thus boundless his love was,
On every side
Spreading freely wherever
Man sorrowed or died.