Author: Clara M. Brooks, pub.
“Lo, she is not dead, but sleeping”—
Thus the blessed Master spake—
Why are all these tears of weeping?
We shall in His likeness wake.
Only sleeping, sweetly sleeping,
While the angels vigil keep;
Jesus gives to His beloved
Rest at last in peaceful sleep.
Just asleep, her soul immortal,
Dwelling now beyond life’s woes,
Finds from care and pain and sorrow
Sweet and undisturbed repose.
As a dream when one awaketh,
As a tale when it is told;
Thus its flight the spirit taketh,
Dust returns to earthly mold.
Like the pearly drops of morning
Soaring upward toward the sun,
Thus our spirits are returning
To their Maker, one by one.
Death no dreaded sting containeth,
For the soul, in Jesus blest,
O’er the grave a vict’ry gaineth—
He who finds this heav’nly rest.