A Lady's Funeral.

August 1889

A black sarcophagus rests in the Church,
     The lid is opened and a ladies face;
Pale as the lining or the bark of birch,
     She no more her husband shall e'er embrace.

Knells start to toll each year that she lived here,
     Slowly they ring as her lifespan slow;
From one to ten it made for many a tear,
     Borne to the Churchyard path she now lays low.

"As it hath pleased the Almighty Lord God,
     To call away the soul of His dear child;
We commit her body to the fresh sod,
     Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," so mild!

Never once did those dark bells cease to ring,
     No one saw swallows twitt'ring in the sky;
No more will she her songs will ever sing,
     No more her presence or her little sigh.

These all have died within her lowly bed,
     Resting in her own soft and narrow cell;
Although the roots shall wrap around her head,
     And darkness seems to cast her awful spell.

Hark! From that yonder field and flow'ry knoll,
     The faintest sounds of angelic hymns sound;
Dying away those bells will cease to toll,
    One day they shall rise out of the cold ground.

God help us put our hand the plough to keep,
     And grant our souls the quick'n grace to fly;
Where none are painful or e'er do they weep,
     And cause us Lord to rise beyond the sky.


~Timothy~

© Timothy 9 October, 2012