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208 FABER'S HYMNS.
How pleasant are thy paths, O Death!
Back to our own dear dead, Into that land which hides in tombs The better part of our old homes ;
'T is there thou mak'st our bed.
How pleasant are thy paths. O Death !
Thither where sorrows cease, To a new life, to an old past, Softly and silently we haste,
Into a land of peace.
How pleasant are thy paths, O Death!
Thy new restores our lost; There are voices of the new times With the ringing of the old chimes
Blent sweetly on thy coast.
How pleasant are thy paths, O Death !
One faint for want of breath, — And above thy promise thou hast given: All, we find more than all in Heaven,
O thou truth-speaking Death !
How pleasant are thy paths, O Death !
E'en children after play Lie clown, without the least alarm, And sleep, in thy maternal arm,
Their little life away. |
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