Death radiant o'er all human woes.
For both by nature are akin;
Sorrow, the ashen fruit of sin,
And joy, the juice of life within.
O, make thy sorrows holy—wise—
So shall their buried memories rise,
Celestial, e'en in mortal skies.
O, think what then had been their doom,
If all unshriven—without a tomb—
They had been left to haunt the gloom!