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THE PATHS OF DEATH. 209
How pleasant are thy paths, O Death !
E'en grown-up men secure Better manhood, by a brave leap Through the chill mist of thy thin sleep, —
Manhood that will endure.
How pleasant are thy paths, O Death!
The old, the very old, Smile when their slumberous eye grows dim, Smile when they feel thee touch each limb,
Their age was not less cold.
How pleasant are thy paths, O Death !
Ever from pain to ease; Patience, that hath held on for years, Never unlearns her humble fears
Of terrible disease.
How pleasant are thy paths, O Death !
From sin to pleasing God ; For the pardoned in thy land are bright As innocence in robe of white,
And walk on the same road.
How pleasant are thy paths, O Death !
Straight to our Father's Home ; All loss were gain that gained us this, The sight of God, that single bliss
Of the grand world to come.
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