She is not dead, she’s singing
With angel bands on high;
On golden harp she’s singing
God’s praises in the sky.
She is not dead, O mother,
Your loss you will deplore;
Kind sisters and fond brother,
Your Nora is no more!
No more, as we have seen her,
The light and life of home,
Of christian-like demeanor,
Which ever brightly shone:
Of youth the guide and teacher,
Of age the stay and hope—
To all a faithful preacher,
To whom we all looked up.
She is not dead, she’s sleeping,
Her loving Saviour said;
Then friends repress your weeping,
God’s will must be obeyed.
She is not dead, she’s shining
In robes of spotless white;
Why then are we repining?
God’s ways are always right.
She is not dead—O never
Will sorrow cross her track;
She’s passed Death’s darksome river,
And who would have her back?
Back from the joys of heaven!
Back from that world of bliss!
Call back the pure, forgiven,
To such a world as this?
A world of grief and anguish—
A world of sin and strife—
In which the righteous languish,
And wickedness is rife,
She is not dead, she’s shouting,
Borne on triumphant wing,
“O grave, where is thy vict’ry,
O Death, where is thy sting?”