  (illuminated capital) Death is not dreadful, no! Though sad affection weeps, The grave is but the cradle where The future seraph sleeps, And smiling Faith her watch above The peaceful slumberer keeps. Death is not dreadful, no! ’Twere terrible to die, E’en to the best, if called to stand Before the Deity Bare in their guilt,—without a friend To meet the Judge’s eye. But oh! the weakest saint May fearless pass the flood, His robe shall shine as white as light Washed in his Saviour’s blood; The Judge Himself shall plead his cause, Who as his Surety stood. Death is not dreadful, no! It bids us reap at last The joyful harvest of our tears, Our toils and trials past; It gives us our inheritance, How glorious and how vast! Death is not dreadful, no! It is the Saviour’s voice Calling His lambs unto the fold; They hear it, and rejoice: In life or death “to be with Christ” This is His servants’ choice. So, when the long night comes, In peace they close their eyes, Humbly confiding in His care Whose love all change defies,— Bowing to His Almighty will, All-merciful, All-wise. Then welcome be the night Preceding endless day, Thrice blessed the Gospel’s glorious light, That chased its gloom away, And showed us life beyond the tomb In Christ, the sinner’s Stay. |
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