492- Dark Is the Hour
Dark is the hour when death prevails,
And triumphs o'er the justó
A painful void within the breast,
When dust goes back to dust;
And solemn is the pall, the bier,
That bears them from our presence here.
But there's a bright, a glorious hope,
That scatters death's dark gloom;
It cheers the saddened spirits up,
It gilds the Christian's tomb;
It brings the resurrection near,
When those we love shall reappear.
Then mourn we not as those whose hopes
With fleeting life depart;
For we have heard a voice from heaven
To every stricken heart:
"Blest are the dead, forever blest,
Who from henceforth in Jesus rest."
With kind regard the Lord beholds
His saints when called to die,
And precious in His holy sight
Their sacred dust shall lie
Till all these storms of life are o'er,
And they shall rise to die no more.
A few more days, and we shall meet
The loved whose toil is o'er,
And plant with joy our bounding feet
On Canaan's radiant shore,
Where, free from all earth's cares and fears,
We'll part no more through endless years.