Classic Poem

How blest are they, in Christ, who die,
While guardian angels linger nigh!
The dreary days of pain are o'er;
And life ebbs out,
As billows die on the shore.

Death wears no terror on its brow;
It comes like summer airs that blow
Across the earth at evening hour,
Or moonlight beams,
That glide along the peaceful bower.

While angel-bands the requiem sing,
The joyful soul is on the wing.
The captive free; life's labor done,—
Clad in white robes,
The saint appears before the throne.

Peace reigns beside the silent bed,—
Peace, where the happy soul has fled;
The Lord hath taken what He gave
The soul hath rest;
And peace is written on the grave.