Lines
On the death of William M. Smith.
Dark is the hour when Death prevails,
And triumphs o’er the just—
A painful void within the breast,
When dust goes back to dust;
And solemn is the pall, the bier,
That bears them from our presence here.
But there’s a bright, a glorious hope,
That scatters death’s dark gloom;
It cheers the saddened spirits up,
It gilds the Christian’s tomb;
It brings the resurrection near,
When those we love shall re-appear.
Then mourn we not as those whose hopes
With fleeting life depart;
For we have heard a voice from Heaven,
To every stricken heart:
Blest are the dead, forever blest,
Who from henceforth in Jesus rest.
With kind regard the Lord beholds
His saints when called to die;
And precious in his holy sight
Their sacred dust shall lie,
Till all these storms of life are o’er,
And they shall rise to die no more.
A few more days and we shall meet
The loved, whose toil is o’er,
And plant with joy our bounding feet
On Canaan’s radiant shore;
Where, free from all earth’s cares and fears,
We’ll part no more through endless years.