And the great ages onward roll.
Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet,
Nothing comes to thee new or strange.
Sleep, full of rest from head to feet;
Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.
Tennyson.
O Thou, who in the garden’s shade
Didst wake Thy weary ones again,
Who slumbered at that fearful hour;
Forgetful of Thy pain;