83. WHAT IS IT TO DIE?The when and how we know not, but to dieIs but one fix'd and common, mortal lot;Yet death is wondrous to our human thought!We quit this earth and far away we fly—But whither? Is it to the Sun on high,Our central light, that our freed soul is brought,If worthy of such place, without a blot;Or to more distant orb in yon blue sky,To some scarce-seen but faintly-twinkling star,Whose rays have travell'd journeys to our sight,Unmeasur'd by our leagues, they come so far?Yet sure at last to dwell in heav'n's own light,—Our bodies rais'd from dust by Christ, our friend,In his own likeness,—ages without end!
83. WHAT IS IT TO DIE?
The when and how we know not, but to dieIs but one fix'd and common, mortal lot;Yet death is wondrous to our human thought!We quit this earth and far away we fly—But whither? Is it to the Sun on high,Our central light, that our freed soul is brought,If worthy of such place, without a blot;Or to more distant orb in yon blue sky,To some scarce-seen but faintly-twinkling star,Whose rays have travell'd journeys to our sight,Unmeasur'd by our leagues, they come so far?Yet sure at last to dwell in heav'n's own light,—Our bodies rais'd from dust by Christ, our friend,In his own likeness,—ages without end!
The when and how we know not, but to die
Is but one fix'd and common, mortal lot;
Yet death is wondrous to our human thought!
We quit this earth and far away we fly—
But whither? Is it to the Sun on high,
Our central light, that our freed soul is brought,
If worthy of such place, without a blot;
Or to more distant orb in yon blue sky,
To some scarce-seen but faintly-twinkling star,
Whose rays have travell'd journeys to our sight,
Unmeasur'd by our leagues, they come so far?
Yet sure at last to dwell in heav'n's own light,—
Our bodies rais'd from dust by Christ, our friend,
In his own likeness,—ages without end!