Then why should I in sadness grieve o'er flow'ry seasons past,
When I'm but nearing all the joys I would possess at last?
When Autumn comes the golden fruit we gather home with joy;
Why suffer then our darksome fears life's harvest to alloy.
Oh, seems it not an idle thing to talk of yon bright Heaven
As our blest home, while to this earth our clinging love is given?
I will not shudder to lie down beneath the clay cold sod—
The grave is blessed since there reposed the glorious Son of God.
Another spring shall bud and bloom, where wintry snow wreaths lie;
So from the darkness of the tomb, to realms beyond the sky,
My joyful flesh, at God's command, to nobler life shall rise,
And in eternal summer wear, the bloom that never dies.