His lips, that done with pleadings vain—
And human sighing, born of pain—
Are hymning heav’ns triumphal strain.
The ages tragic Rhythm of change
Clashing on projects new and strange—
The tireless nations forward range—
Can ne’er disturb the perfect rest
Wherein he lieth—being blest,
With chill hands cross’d on silent breast.
Oh mourning heart! whose heavy plaint
Drifts down the deathly shadows faint,
Why weep ye for this risen saint?
His life’s pale ashes, under foot
That cling about the daisies’ root
Will bear at last most glorious fruit!
’Tis but the casket hid away
Neath roof of stone and burial clay;
The jewel shines in endless day!
And thus I gather for my tears
Sweet hope from faith in after years;
And far across the glimmering spheres
Height over height the heavens expand—
I see him in God’s Eden land,
With palms of vict’ry in his hand;
O’er brows of solemn breadth profound,
With fadeless wreaths of glory wound,
He stands a seraph, robed and crowned.
Aye! in a vision, see I now;
Christ’s symbol written on his brow—
Found worthy unto death art thou!