All wept, and bewailed her: but he said, Luke 8:52
Weep not; she is not dead, but sleepeth.
If you know where to get a better photo of Jones,
Viewed only by the feeble rays
The lamp of human wisdom lends,
How dark the providential ways
That rob us of our dearest friends!
But yesterday we looked on them
Whose years we counted far ahead!
When, lo! the morrow’s sun looked down
And they we loved so well, are dead.
With eyes bedimmed and bated breath
We look upon the pallid face,
And wonder why the Angel Death
Should call them to his cold embrace.
But, no! We’ll not think thus of them;
’Tis but the mortal that is mute;
The same keen frost that breaks the bur
Will sweeten and mature the fruit.
’Tis hard when earthly ties are torn;
The heart will bleed—God made it so;
But, O beside the pointed thorn
The fragrant rose of hope will grow.
We would not quell our heaving breast;
We would not check the tears that fall;
For they who knew our loved ones best
Know, too, that they deserve them all.
But though today we weep for them,
Whose voice is hushed, whose hands are chill,
We look beyond this house of clay,
And think of them as living still.
To us their memory shall be dear,
And when we sing of Jesus’ love,
We’ll list! Perhaps our hearts may hear
The same sweet song from them above.