Scatter no flowers o'er his tomb,
But let a thorn be planted there;
Death robes the charnel house in gloom—
Then let it not joy's seeming wear.
Say not that he has conquered death—
The King of Terrors mocks the claim;
Say not that at his parting breath,
The Savior in his glory came.
O death, thy domain is too drear
To give us hope, or leave us joy;
The grave has not one ray to cheer
The cold couch of our sleeping boy.
When our dear Savior came to earth,
Though heir of glory—Son of God—
His life was lowly as his birth,
And toilsome was the path he trod.
He suffered, as we suffer now;
He meekly bore the world's cold frown;
He murmured not, though on his brow
The mockers set a thorny crown.
The crown—a mockery of his right;
The thorn—the curse of groaning earth;
The robe—the reed—his scepter light—
Were subjects of their cruel mirth.
He died! all nature was arrayed
In sable garb of deepest woe;
But glory shone where he was laid—
He died! but soon he triumphed too.
Then let us with him wear the thorn,
And with him bear the world's cold frown;
Let not the rose the place adorn
Where we have laid the loved one down,
But oh! let endless glory shine,
When he receives immortal breath;
When Jesus, robed in power divine,
Shall set him free, and conquer death.
Dear Savior! thine shall be the praise;
We court not death; oh, set us free;
And when we songs of victory raise,
We'll give the glory all to thee.
E'en now we wait for that glad day;
Let faith drive all our fears away.
Let sorrow flee before thy word;
In hope we wait for our reward,
Securely hid in Christ our Lord.
J. H. W.