In the days of our youth when our hearts are all gladness,
And seldom we feel the emotions of sadness;
When our life is the course of the high-bounding wave,
How dismal and drear is the thought of the grave.

When the bright form of beauty that smiled on our path
Has been met by the Monster, and crushed in his wrath,
And they carry her forth to the sepulchre's cave,
How cold to the heart is the sight of the grave.

When a sister hath died, like a beautiful rose
That droops on its stem when the winter-wind blows,
And her spirit hath gone to the Spirit who gave,
How we shrink from the cold, narrow house of the grave.

From the home of our youth to the land of the dead
When brother and mother and father have fled,
Alone in our sorrow no comfort we crave,
Yet recoiling we dread their embrace in the grave.

And must we all lie in this scene of destruction,
Where revels the worm without interruption, —
The fair and the graceful, the youthful and brave, —
And is there no light to illumine the grave?

Oh, yes! there is One who hath entered the tomb,
And broken its bondage, and banished its gloom:
Then be not in terror of Jordan's dark wave,
But cling to the Saviour, — the Light of the Grave!