MAKE grave-yards like to gardens if you will,
As is the fashion of the present day,
Plant them with flowers, lay them out with walks,
Rear costly monuments with sculpture decked,
And let the gay and godless gather there
And pass the sunny hours in idle talk;
'Tis all in vain: death is not thereby changed,
'Tis still the same relentless enemy,
And bleeding hearts and rending groans will still
Attest its fearful and malignant sway;
And still the grave opes its rapacious maw,
And, swallowing those we love, shuts it again
Hiding them thus forever from our sight.
Oh, doleful grave! Oh, melancholy pit!
Thy loathsome cavity mars every joy,
While the small mound which covers up thy mouth,
Till 'tis re-opened to engulf more prey,
Is watered daily with the bitter tears
Of widows and of orphans left to mourn.
But if 'tis vain to ornament the grave,
'Tis worse than vain to linger by its side,
And dwell upon its triumphs; they are known
Alas! too well; but Oh! most glorious truth!
They will not last forever; death shall die,
And the grave close to ope its mouth no more;
For Christ hath died and, therefore death shall die,
And life, eternal life, shall bear the sway,
And even now, death is a vanquished foe,
That fell before the power of Him who died
Upon the cross in Calvary's awful hour.
Dying in weakness, He within the tomb
Lay for a season in the grasp of death,
When lo! the earthquake shook the solid ground,
And, casting off death's chains like burning tow,
The Lord came forth raised by the power of God,
The first-fruits from among the silent dead,
The first-fruits only; for the time will come
When all His saints will triumph over death,
For oh, God wills not they should ever lie
In the stern grasp of a relentless foe,
No! they will rise again, for Christ will come
With shout and voice and trumpet's potent blast,
And through death's dark dominion life will dart
Like an electric shock, and instantly;
Aye, in the sudden twinkling of an eye,
Myriads on myriads of the saints of God
Shall rise with shouts of joy, and soar aloft,
To meet their loving Saviour in the air.
Then will arise the loud triumphant strain,
"O death!" thou dreadful foe, where is thy sting?
"O conquering grave!" where is thy victory?
Then look not at the grave,-'tis all in vain,
And only tends to sadden the poor heart,
Look to the Lord, the mighty Conqueror,
Who, dying for the sinner, broke death's sway,
And burst its shackles like a thing of nought.
Look to the glorious resurrection morn,
That "morning without clouds," which soon will dawn,
When Christ will come to free his own from death,
Making them glorious as its glorious self,
To dwell with Him in everlasting joy.
That morn will soon be here; ere yet the sun
Has dawned again upon this slumbering world
The Lord may come to take His people home,
Oh, blessed hope! Oh, truth divinely true!
Most joyful news for thee, O Church of God!"
—Hector Maiben, in Messiah's Herald.