To Mrs. B——, on the Death of a Son
How frail are all the things of earth,
How subject to decay;
Scarce they receive their fragile birth
Ere they are swept away.
And tyrant death, with icy hand,
Is ever lurking near,
And binding in his frozen band,
The forms to us most dear.
But do not mourn the early dead,
Whose thread of life is riven;
’Tis Jesus calls them from the earth,
To be with Him in heaven.
Spotless and pure they pass from earth,
And Jesus bids them come;
And glorious is their heavenly birth
In their eternal home.
No more you’ll hear the plaintive voice;—
“Mother, dear mother, where?”
Your child shall with his God rejoice
In full fruition there.
No more shall burning fever rage,
No more shall pain oppress,
But angel strains his tongue engage
In hymns of righteousness.
And when life’s ebbing sands shall fail,
And pallid death shall come,
May you then look within the vail,
To that eternal home.
And then, perhaps, your gentle child,
So soon from sin set free,
May be the first of angel bands,
Brightly to welcome thee.
So do not mourn the early dead,
So sinless and so fair,
But be prepared to join their bliss,
Thus is the stranger’s prayer.