Classic Poem

'Twas the angel of death that to us downward flew
On the twentieth of March, nineteen hundred and two;
And a brother we loved was transported away
On the wings of the same to the regions of day.

In the choir where he led must his melody cease,
For he joins in the songs of the angels of peace;
And the league that he served will his memory prize,
While he meets with a league of the saints in the skies.

Do you say he is lost? Let such words be no more;
He has left us on earth but has gone on before,
There to welcome each friend in the loveliest bond,
Till we all meet again in the sweetest beyond.

Now we read in the book known as God's holy word,
Of the saints who are blest and who died in the Lord;
How they rest from their labors, and fruits will be borne,
By their friends upon earth till they meet round the throne.

Over time's rugged sea waves an influence strong,
'Twas begun by his work in opposing the wrong,
And continued to widen till touched by the land,
Of the heavenly shore, on the Father's right hand.

He is dead to the earth and to creatures of time,
But he lives in the fields of a verdure sublime;
We shall see him again when our life-work is o'er,
In the beautiful land, on the heavenly shore.