Mothers waft their prayers on high,
O my God! woe are we!
With their dead child on their breast.
And the altars ask the sky --
O my Christ! woe are we!
"Give the dead, O Father, rest!
Spare thy people! mercy! spare!"
Answer will not come to prayer --
Horror moveth everywhere.
And the temples miss the priest --
O my God! woe are we!
And the cradle mourns the child.
Husband at your bridal feast --
Woe are you! woe are you!
Think how those poor dead eyes smiled;
They will never smile again --
Every tie is cut in twain,
All the strength of love is vain.
Weep? but tears are weak as foam --
Woe are ye! woe are we!
They but break upon the shore
Winding between here and home --
Woe are ye! woe are we!
Wailing never! nevermore!
Ah! the dead! they are so lone,
Just a grave, and just a stone,
And the memory of a moan.
Pray! yes, pray! for God is sweet --
O my God! woe are we!
Tears will trickle into prayers
When we kneel down at His feet --
Woe are we! woe are we!
With our crosses and our cares.
He will calm the tortured breast,
He will give the troubled rest --
And the dead He watcheth best.
When? (Death)
Some day in Spring,
When earth is fair and glad,
And sweet birds sing,
And fewest hearts are sad --
Shall I die then?
Ah! me, no matter when;
I know it will be sweet
To leave the homes of men
And rest beneath the sod,
To kneel and kiss Thy feet
In Thy home, O my God!
Some Summer morn
Of splendors and of songs,
When roses hide the thorn
And smile -- the spirit's wrongs --
Shall I die then?
Ah! me, no matter when;
I know I will rejoice
To leave the haunts of men
And lie beneath the sod,
To hear Thy tender voice
In Thy home, O my God!
Some Autumn eve,
When chill clouds drape the sky,
When bright things grieve
Because all fair things die --
Shall I die then?
Ah! me, no matter when,
I know I shall be glad,
Away from the homes of men,
Adown beneath the sod,
My heart will not be sad
In Thy home, O my God!
Some Wintry day,
When all skies wear a gloom,
And beauteous May
Sleeps in December's tomb,
Shall I die then?
Ah! me, no matter when;
My soul shall throb with joy
To leave the haunts of men
And sleep beneath the sod.
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