Poems (Smith)/Death

by Martha A. Smith

For works with similar titles, see Death.

DEATH.

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Death!—what is it? Why do we shudder
 To meet the grim monster face to face?
'Tis ever with us,—we can not escape it;
 Ere long we'll be in Death's cold embrace.

If only ready to" meet the dread summons
 When God may call us to mingle with dust,
And feel our hearts pure, sins all forgiven,
 Awaiting our reward in Heaven with trust.

This subject on which we too seldom reflect,
 Hoarding up wealth to harden the heart,
Death comes at last in all his dark terrors,
 Shrieking we bid the grim monster depart.

But 'tis too late! Death's icy cold fingers
 Clasp us already tight round the heart:
Prayers nor riches will not then avail us
 In the dread hour when called to depart.