I come each year to raise the drooping head,
To whisper to the mourner, Is Christ dead,
That you so mourn your loved? Look upward, sing!
Behold yon butterfly on gorgeous wing!
Know that this grave is but the chrysalis—
Then light, and glory, where the Saviour is;
And ‘where I am, there ye shall also be’;
‘Come, weary, heavy laden, come to me!’”
The vision fled,
But to her heart there softly came