That Christ who o'er His Lazarus wept,
And said, 'The dead again shall rise!'
Is 'the first fruits of them that slept,'
Their head,-their herald to the skies.
Not to this wretched life alone
Our hopes are bounded; Christ hath given
To those He loves a nobler zone,
And calls them to a higher heaven.
But earth's anxieties and cares,
And prayer and praise and deeds of love,
Are but the lowly ladder-stairs
By which we reach that heaven above.
'Tis here life's history begins,
When day and night's vicissitude,
And suffering's discipline, and sins,
And weal and woe, combine for good.
For God and goodness are the same,
On all those rays benignant fall,
Love is the ever-during name,
Embracing and pervading all.