VII.
1. Men.
Glory be to God on high:
Where is Death, that uncouth thing?
He hath now a sheltering wing.
Awful phantom, where art thou?
Heav'n's own bloom is on thy brow,
Earth hath nothing half so fair,
Christ's own flesh and blood is there.
On thy cold lips and silent tongue
A deathless health hath sprung,
Which thro' the days of Heav'n for ever shall grow young.
2. Angels.
Peace be upon earth below.
Shape of woe! if form that be
Which is but deformity,
Death, the gloomy King of tears,
Waited on by spectral fears,
Now thy dark-illumin'd shade
Is in hope a solemn glade,
That leadeth to the place of God.
Christ is the staff and rod;
His presence lights the vale which He Himself hath trod.
3. Men and Angels.
Good will to man from God above:
The light breaks forth on shapes afar
That darkly throng'd life's closing gate,
And there keeps watch a gleaming star,
Where dismal shadows seem'd to wait;
As clouds along the bending sky,
Like mountains pil'd on high,
When lo, Thy gentle gale Thou bidd'st to blow,
And into empty air before Thy breath they go.
