HOW BLEST ARE THEY, IN CHRIST, WHO DIE!
“Peace was the last word of little Jane, and peace seemed to be inscribed on the farewell scene at the grave where they laid her down to rest.”
How blest are they, in Christ, who die,
While guardian angels linger nigh!
The dreary days of pain are o'er;
And life ebbs out,
As billows die on the shore.
Death wears no terror on its brow;
It comes like summer airs that blow
Across the earth at evening hour,
Or moonlight beams,
That glide along the peaceful bower.
While angel-bands the requiem sing,
The joyful soul is on the wing.
The captive free; life's labor done,—
Clad in white robes,
The saint appears before the throne.
Peace reigns beside the silent bed,—
Peace, where the happy soul has fled;
The Lord hath taken what He gave.
The soul hath rest;
And peace is written on the grave.
