Thou art too blurred and blinding now to let Thine eye behold the beauty of the light That glimmers through thy grief,--but thou wilt yet, If pleaseth God, with faith-anointed sight And love anew Dissolve in joy and for the sepulchre Glad that which makes it victory, O tear!
O dead of earth, rejoice! The flowers from the dust By vernal dews arise And smile reviving trust, When from their Wintry tomb they wake And into Summer beauty break.
And so shall sleeping be Within our fleshly tomb; The Eastertide shall free The life that lieth numb, And from the dust shall rise anew The deathless bloom of Spring and dew.
Say not to ashes turns Our being with its shell, For a divineness burns By death unquenchable To warm the poor chill mould we’re of And our undying nature prove.
If not another grace Shall clothe our soul’s desire, Let not the grave efface What in us doth aspire! So shall we nobler be than clay And give a truth to “life for aye.”
As from the window-pane a light doth gleam To cheer the traveller at eventide, So was her smile the ever-friendly beam That lit the way or bade the guest abide.
She knew no cross or care but what was eased By smiling trust that everything was best; When all around were happy she was pleased, When she could make them happy she was blest.
We knew who loved her best, the sweetness of Her always gentle look and Christian grace; She filled the home with precious motherlove, And no one else can fill her sacred place.
Hers was the smile that shone in sun and storm, In ministry to others or when they Looked to her out of trouble, and the charm Of such serenity drove doubt away.
She smiled in life and then the miracle Of soul untroubled triumphed to the end; She smiles in death to comfort us--“’Tis well!” To let us know that she hath found a Friend.
There are cloudy, sullen skies, But what of that? There are discontented eyes, But what of that? When the day is gloomiest, Over on the hill-tops west There is sunshine. Brother, best Think of that.
There are dour looks enough, But what of that? Tasks forbidding, hard and rough, But what of that? Though the vale the weather spoils, On the hill-tops there are miles Of old Sol’s unconquered smiles; What of that?