Classic Poem

Christ's departed are at rest,
Their souls are free from care,
Their last abode is with the blest;
None but the blest are there.

They thought not of the world at large,
But trusting in their God;
They learn'd their duty to discharge,
On earth's yet dreary sod.

They trusted in the Lord above,
Commended him their frame,
Thought on a Saviour's dying love,
And cherish'd long his name.

Such spirits hence, shall never mourn,
Or wailing tears be shed;
But firmer in their trust be borne,
To glories far ahead.

They wake no more with greeting smile,
Gay voice or buoyant tread;
And yet some voices say the while,
Of sleepers, — they are dead.

The bless'd in Christ, 'tis true do sleep
They sleep, but are not dead;
Angels around their beds do keep,
They lightly, softly tread.

Like theirs — our transient date must come,
How soon we cannot tell;
But if in God we trust like some,
Henceforth, forever well.