Grand Haven Daily Tribune April 14, 1898
Death.
―
BY DAVID FLETCHER HUNTON.
―
It must be so; Death’s but the dawn
Of an existence farther on;
A trip upon the only line
Which has a terminus divine.
‘Tis but a step into that world
Among the millions now impearled
In that grand system, so diverse,
Of God’s progressive Universe.
This earth, with which we all find fault,
Is but the place from which we vault
Into another plain―degree―
Of our improving entity.
What joy, to sweep past burning Mars,
Orion’s Belt, and shining bars!
What joy, to visit brighter skies,
Where beauty glows, and never dies!
I like to think of roaming through
Fair Eden’s groves, and gardens, too,
And wandering beside that stream,
Where sparkling waves of crystal gleam;
I love to think, I shall behold,
The “shining way” and “streets of gold;”
Those jasper walls so grandly made,
With gold and amethyst inlaid.
The voice within us does not lie
When whispering, “You shall not die!”
Sweet faces in the open skies,
Are ever looking in our eyes;
And to our souls they sing today
Of brighter, holier scenes away;
God’s angels come and fold their wings,
And softly touch the golden strings,
And sing of what the soul will be
When clothed with Immortality.
The twinkling stars, which nightly shine,
All sing the truth, at days decline;
The sun and moon of our domain,
The mountains and the level plain;
The lakes and rivers and the seas,
The cyclone and the gentle breeze;
The seasons of the rolling years,
All breathe this truth into our ears!
The dying look within the veil,
And as the mortal senses fail―
As sounds around them grow less clear,
And sweetness music greets the ear―
As distant gleams of heaven’s light,
Grows brighter to the spirit’s sight:
The golden gates come into view,
And waiting angels pass them through.
Our loves! Do they survive this life?
Our love of mother, father, wife?
The loves, which in the mortal heart,
Took such deep root, do they depart?
Or do they live to bud and bloom,
Beyond the darkness of the tomb?
They will survive the wreck of Time,
And in a fairer, brighter clime,
They will not fade, and droop, and die,
Beneath God’s glory lighted sky!
At death, we’ll change our earthly dress,
For spotless robes of holiness;
We’ll cast this “Handiwork” of clay
Into the dust, where it will lay.
‘Till God shall change its mortal hue,
And weave it for our souls, anew!
Grand Haven, Mich., March 26, 1898
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