 | The forest minstrel |  |
255
DEATH.
Death! 'tis a fearful word
To those who have no God;
No interest in a risen Lord,
And his redeeming blood.
To those who have no God;
No interest in a risen Lord,
And his redeeming blood.
'Tis dread to lie at night,
By conscience sore oppressed;
With everlasting wo in sight,
Its tortures in the breast.
By conscience sore oppressed;
With everlasting wo in sight,
Its tortures in the breast.
Death! word of cold deep gloom
To beings who profess
To hope for nought beyond the tomb,
But night and nothingness.
To beings who profess
To hope for nought beyond the tomb,
But night and nothingness.
To die and pass away
From this bright joyous sphere,
To rottenness and foul decay,
Ha! what a sting is here.
From this bright joyous sphere,
To rottenness and foul decay,
Ha! what a sting is here.
Death! 'tis no thought of joy
To souls of sins forgiven;
Who trust that they have but to die
To pass from earth to heaven.
To souls of sins forgiven;
Who trust that they have but to die
To pass from earth to heaven.
256
For oh! the clinging ties,
The child, the infant dear,
The clasping hands, the grief-dim eyes—
How they would bind us here.
The child, the infant dear,
The clasping hands, the grief-dim eyes—
How they would bind us here.
Yet Christians fear not death;
They lay them down in peace,
Give God their friends, with dying breath,
And pass where sorrows cease.
They lay them down in peace,
Give God their friends, with dying breath,
And pass where sorrows cease.
| The forest minstrel | |