English poem
On the Death of a Believer
by John Newton (1725–1807)
In vain our fancy strives to paint The moment after death, The glories that surround the saints When yielding up their breath.
One gentle sigh their fetters breaks; We scarce can say, “They’re gone!” Before the willing spirit takes Her mansion near the throne.
Faith strives, but all its efforts fail To trace her in her flight; No eye can pierce within the veil Which hides that world of light
Thus much (and this is all) we know, They are completely bless’d— Have done with sin and care and woe, And with their Saviour rest.
On harps of gold they praise his name, His face they always view; Then let us foll’wers be of them, That we may praise him too.
Their faith and patience, love and zeal, Should make their mem’ry dear; And, Lord, do thou the pray’rs fulfill They offer’d for us here.
While they have gain’d we losers are, We miss them day by day: But thou canst every breach repair, And wipe our tears away.
We pray, as in Elisha’s case, When great Elijah went— May double portions of thy grace To us who stay be sent.