(By Phie Chester Bostick.)

Anguish stops my heart from beating –
‘Tis a message – he is dead!
Oft and oft I keep repeating,
“Faith is helmet for the head.”

True, the form I loved is sleeping
‘Neath a far and foreign soil,
Yet, the soul is now in keeping
With the seraphs, freed from toil.

God, who watches mortals praying
Through a long and lone morass,
In his arms is gath’ring, straying
Spirits on the Upward Pass.

Peace! I hear a voice soft, asking,
“Would you call your loved one back?”
This my answer, soul unmasking,
“God, thou dost no knowledge lack.”

Oh! he left when dreams were brightest,
When the pulse beat strong and fast,
When the morning sky was lightest –
Ere a black’ning cloud had past.

Had he lived until tomorrow,
Life had held a bitter cup;
As we grow we taste of sorrow –
‘Tis a drink none fail to sup!

Though we drink the cup that’s bitter,
Death kills not the soul we love!
Thou, O Father, great Creator,
Hath redeemed the soul above.

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