The sands are all spent in his measure of Time;
He has gone to his rest in the flush of his prime;
From Jerusalem below to that City on high,
From the sorrows of earth to the bliss of the sky.
What a soldier was he, in the might of his Lord,
With his armor all on, and his militant sword!
And the souls he has won shall be stars that shall burn
In his crown at that day when his Lord shall return.
Mourn we not for the soldier whose battle is won,
Who has heard from His lips the sweet plaudit, “WELL DONE!”
One moment in pain, with his fast-failing breath,
The next, he had walked through the valley of death;
All its evil had fled, for his Master had trod,
With the thorns on his brow, all the depths of that road:
E’en the “shadow of death” was all bright with the light
Of unspeakable glory that burst on his sight.
Safe, safe with his Lord in those mansions of rest,
Where the absence of sin is the bliss of the blest;
Where both pastor and people are welcomed as one,
By Jesus himself, “in the midst of the throne.”
No more in the flesh shall his feet press the sod
Of a land made immortal by visions of God;
For the eye that erst kindled on Salem of old,
Now sees the new Salem’s rich glories unfold,
And the soul often sad in this valley of tears,
Is now thrilled with the rapture of measureless years.