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the burial of the dead.
In the hollow of my hand
Lies a sleeping chrysalis;
Can ye not understand
Death's mystery by this.
Within the husk doth lie,
The dry dust of a worm;
And from these atoms by and by,
God will evolve a form—
Lies a sleeping chrysalis;
Can ye not understand
Death's mystery by this.
Within the husk doth lie,
The dry dust of a worm;
And from these atoms by and by,
God will evolve a form—
A lovely, radiant thing,
Which at its second birth
Will soar on shining wing—
And once it crawled the earth.
O, can we doubt that He,
Who formeth such with care,
Will of dust less mindful be,
Which doth His image bear.
Which at its second birth
Will soar on shining wing—
And once it crawled the earth.
O, can we doubt that He,
Who formeth such with care,
Will of dust less mindful be,
Which doth His image bear.
Nay! so, in perfect trust,
In the dark tomb we lay;
Our dead, knowing their dust,
Will rise again one day.
And though our tears may fall,
And hearts be wrung with pain;
Death's not the end of all—
For we shall rise again.
In the dark tomb we lay;
Our dead, knowing their dust,
Will rise again one day.
And though our tears may fall,
And hearts be wrung with pain;
Death's not the end of all—
For we shall rise again.
