Poem 93 (And when we lay them in…)

And when we lay them in the ground The sting of death is living still, Although we know that they have found The city set upon an hill.

We sigh and weep and pray for rest, And murmur that the way is long. Alas! the Islands of the Blest Are only blest in psalm and song.

Nay, not in psalm, for David knew The dread that pierces like a sword, And had the faith to say it too: "The dead they praise not Thee, O Lord."

The life that we so much despise The Son hath deigned with us to share. Shall we find favour in Thine eyes By slighting what He made His care?

We feel more truly than we speak, Thou art the Life, and Thou hast said That he who lives, however weak, Shall not be numbered with the dead.