Lo! half way up the hill I pause
To turn within the ancient gate
And enter ground now hallowéd!
The silent city where they wait
In perfect rest till He shall bid
Them rise who now in sleep are laid;
Whose life, and death, and waiting e'en,
On Him in childlike faith is stayed!
No sound is heard within the spot
Save the soft wind among the trees,
Or song of insect's busy hum,
Or low of herd upon the breeze.
I walk 'mid graves of those long dead,
Who lived and suffered, strove and won,
And now have entered into life
E'en while we say their life is done!
I fain would take when I return
Into the world's wild rush and roar,
The peace of this fair autumn day,
That it bide with me evermore!
That I may learn from this blest spot
Where sleep the dead—who in the Lord
Now take their rest—that life is more
Than idle jest, than passing word,
Than anxious effort for the bread
That perisheth! Yea, more!
That life is as a vessel given
Of precious ointment, that we bear
And fear that we its freight may waste
Ere we may yield it to His care!