Poems (Curwen)/The Burial of the Dead

by Annie Isabel Curwen

The Burial of the Dead.

"In sure and certain hope,"
 What comfort it affords;
When the dark grave doth ope,
 To hear these cheering words—
These words of solemn trust,
 Over our dear ones read;
As we commit their dust
 To its last narrow bed.

When heads are bowed in woe,
 And tears of sorrow fall;
How sweet it is to know
 Death's not the end of all.
That in a brighter sphere,
 Beyond the reach of pain;
The dear ones we loved here,
 Will clasp our hands again.

Blind unbelief sees naught,
 Beyond the cold damp sod;
But faith, divinely taught,
 Looks brightly up to God.
O, ye of little faith!
 Why murmur so, and weep,
When the kind angel death
 Bids your beloved ones sleep.

In the hollow of my hand
 Lies a sleeping chrysalis;
Can ye not understand
 Death's mystery by this.
Within the husk doth lie,
 The dry dust of a worm;
And from these atoms by and by,
 God will evolve a form—

A lovely, radiant thing,
 Which at its second birth
Will soar on shining wing—
 And once it crawled the earth.
O, can we doubt that He,
 Who formeth such with care,
Will of dust less mindful be,
 Which doth His image bear.

Nay! so, in perfect trust,
 In the dark tomb we lay;
Our dead, knowing their dust,
 Will rise again one day.
And though our tears may fall,
 And hearts be wrung with pain;
Death's not the end of all—
 For we shall rise again.