Wrapped in a white and hoary garb,
Nature is fast asleep;
The earth, like man, must have repose,
Or fruit we’ll never reap.
An unseen artist through the night,
In lovely crystal stains,
Has drawn the phantom fairy trees
Upon the window panes.
At night athwart the heavens, bright
Meteors flash and gleam;
And far above the wintry waste,
The stars like jewels seem.
The wind moans through the leafless trees,
The firs with snow are clad;
The feathered minstrels now are mute,
So listless, dull, and sad.
Where are the flowers? alas! they’re dead,
They slumber ‘neath the ground;
And where the blooming rose once hung,
The icicle is found.
We, too, may die, but Springtime comes,
This hope allays our fears;
The dead in Christ will live again,
Through never ending years.
“FOR THE LORD HIMSELF SHALL DESCEND FROM HEAVEN WITH A SHOUT, WITH THE VOICE OF THE ARCHANGEL, AND WITH THE TRUMP OF GOD: AND THE DEAD IN CHRIST SHALL RISE FIRST.” 1 Thessalonians 4:16.
“Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord.” 1 Thessalonians 4:17.
ML 12/02/1945