Often, when I am alone,
Thinking of the "things unseen;"
Things to our eyes never shown,
Hidden by the veil between
This world and eternity—
To be lifted by and by,
Oft the thought has come to me,
"Who will robe me, when I die."
When the night-time swiftly nears,
And my last sleep comes apace,
And the mourners' bitter tears
Fall above my dying face;
When I pass out, white and still,
Where no mortal hand can save,
Out beyond the reach of skill—
Who will robe me, for the grave?
When my work is all complete,
And I have no more to do,
And I pass with willing feet,
From the old life, to the new;
While my dear ones numb with woe,
Weep above my pulseless heart,
Who, of all the friends I know,
Who will robe me to depart?
Who will fold my pallid hands,
On my quiet bosom; close
Eyes that gaze on other lands,
Clothe me for my last repose?
When soft fingers toy and play
With my tresses tenderly,
Oft the thought has come to me,
"Will these robe me, when I die?"