Our Father, when our loved one lay
With her languid eyes half closed,
When the darkening shadow of the grave
On her sunny brow reposed,
'Mid our woe thou didst send thy spirit down
To renew her failing breath,
And 'mid our joy we bless Thee now,
0 thou God of life and death!

All, when she turned from the shadowy vale,
From the night that gloomed before her,
A new life burst, like a tropical day,
In surpassing glory, o'er her!
The stars pour down a purer light,
The sunbeams richer fall,
And sweeter far through the arch of heaven
Sounds the wild-bird's early call.

And each low wind that murmurs by,
Or lingers on her brow,
Seems a whisper from the realm of peace,
The kiss of angels now;
And flowers are far more blessed things, —
The lowliest that bloom
Bear tracings of the loving hand
That raised her from the tomb.

Though she seemeth yet, with her noiseless step,
Some fair and fleeting shade,
And her voice hath the sound of a silver brook,
Low rippling down the glade; —
Though faint the flush that sometimes comes
Her glowing dreams to speak,
As the shadow of a rose-leaf cast
On a sculptured Psyche's cheek; —

Life, life, is thrilling through her veins!
And her heart, these warm spring hours,
Waked to new raptures and new loves,
Seems beating under flowers,
Like a pulse in the brow of a young May Queen,
Just crowned in her morning bowers.

That from her door to the place of graves
The path is yet untrod, —
That we have not pressed on her warm young breast
The icy burial sod, —
That she sleepeth, and waketh, and is not dead,
We bless thee, 0 our God!