603. C. M. Wilson. Consolations in Bereavement.
1 The air of death breathes through our souls,
The dead all round us lie;
By day and night the death-bell tolls,
And says, |Prepare to die!|
2 The loving ones we loved the best,
Like music all are gone;
And the wan moonlight bathes in rest,
Their monumental stone.
3 But not when the death-prayer is said,
The life of life departs:
The body in the grave is laid,
Its beauty in our hearts.
4 This frame, O God, this feeble breath,
Thy hand may soon destroy;
We think of thee, and feel in death
A deep and awful joy.
5 Dim is the light of vanished years
In glory yet to come;
O idle grief! O foolish tears!
When Jesus calls us home.