Lines

On the death of William M. Smith.

Dark is the hour when Death prevails, And triumphs o'er the just— A painful void within the breast, When dust goes back to dust; And solemn is the pall, the bier, That bears them from our presence here.

But there's a bright, a glorious hope, That scatters death's dark gloom; It cheers the saddened spirits up, It gilds the Christian's tomb; It brings the resurrection near, When those we love shall re-appear.

Then mourn we not as those whose hopes With fleeting life depart; For we have heard a voice from Heaven, To every stricken heart: Blest are the dead, forever blest, Who from henceforth in Jesus rest.

With kind regard the Lord beholds His saints when called to die; And precious in his holy sight Their sacred dust shall lie, Till all these storms of life are o'er, And they shall rise to die no more.

A few more days and we shall meet The loved, whose toil is o'er, And plant with joy our bounding feet On Canaan's radiant shore; Where, free from all earth's cares and fears, We'll part no more through endless years.