COMFORT—BY A COFFIN.
87
(If you could show me any such
In air that I can breathe!)
And surely Death's cold hand has much, so much,
About it we can touch!
In air that I can breathe!)
And surely Death's cold hand has much, so much,
About it we can touch!
Ah, friend of mine,
Say nothing of the thorns—and then
Say nothing of the snow.
God's will? It is—that thorns must grow,
Despite our bare and troubled feet,
To crown Christ on the cross:
The snow keeps white watch on the unrisen wheat;
And yet—the world is sweet.
Say nothing of the thorns—and then
Say nothing of the snow.
God's will? It is—that thorns must grow,
Despite our bare and troubled feet,
To crown Christ on the cross:
The snow keeps white watch on the unrisen wheat;
And yet—the world is sweet.
Ah, friend of mine,
I know, I know—all you can know!
All you can say is—this:
"It is the last time you can kiss
This only one of all the dead,
Knowing it is the last;
These are the last tears you can ever shed
On this fair fallen head."
I know, I know—all you can know!
All you can say is—this:
"It is the last time you can kiss
This only one of all the dead,
Knowing it is the last;
These are the last tears you can ever shed
On this fair fallen head."
