She is not dead, but sleepeth.
--Luke 8:52.
She is not dead, she's sleeping
The dreamless sleep and drear;
Her friends are gathered weeping
Round her untimely bier.
She is not dead, her spirit,
Too pure to dwell with clay,
Has gone up to inherit
The realms of endless day.
She is not dead, she's singing
With angel bands on high;
On golden harp she's singing
God's praises in the sky.
She is not dead, O mother,
Your loss you will deplore;
Kind sisters and fond brother,
Your Nora is no more!
No more, as we have seen her,
The light and life of home,
Of christian-like demeanor,
Which ever brightly shone:
Of youth the guide and teacher,
Of age the stay and hope--
To all a faithful preacher,
To whom we all looked up.
She is not dead, she's sleeping,
Her loving Saviour said;
Then friends repress your weeping,
God's will must be obeyed.
She is not dead, she's shining
In robes of spotless white;
Why then are we repining?
God's ways are always right.
She is not dead--O never
Will sorrow cross her track;
She's passed Death's darksome river,
And who would have her back?
Back from the joys of heaven!
Back from that world of bliss!
Call back the pure, forgiven,
To such a world as this?
A world of grief and anguish--
A world of sin and strife--
In which the righteous languish,
And wickedness is rife,
She is not dead, she's shouting,
Borne on triumphant wing,
"O grave, where is thy vict'ry,
O Death, where is thy sting?"