'For so He giveth His beloved sleep.'
She is not dead, but sleepeth;-
Ere long will the morning break,
When those we love who sleep in Him,
Shall from the dust awake.
She is not dead, but sleepeth;-
Soon, soon will the ransomed sing
O! grave, where is thy victory?
O! death, where is thy sting?
Mary Weston Fordham
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mrs-rebecca-weston/
