Poems (Helen Jenkins)/Death

For works with similar titles, see Death.
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DEATH.
Death is called a mystic river, Rolling onward broad and deep;Through a vale of shadows, ever Ceaselessly its waters sweep.Our poor souls shrink back affrighted, When we near the surging tide;Yet the golden lamps are lighted Just upon the other side:
While the grand and lofty portal Of the pearly gate betweenEarth and Spirit-land immortal, Casts the shadows which are seenO'er the wide-spread waters falling, Silent, sad and sweet.Why, then, do they seem appalling, Though they fall around our feet?
Though the way seems dark and dreary, Jesus walketh by our side.He will pity us when weary; He will bear us o'er the tide;In His grace and loving kindness We may trust forevermore.He will take away our blindness Ere we reach the shining shore.
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