Mourn Not As Those Without Hope Poem by John Bowring

My wife! my children! when death's hour is come,
Dry every, every gushing tear, I pray,
And rather smile, that I am welcomed home,
And to a better country take my way.
'Tis I who rather ought to weep for you,
Who struggle onwards, through a life of pain,
Until you reach the eternal rendezvous,
Where widowed spirits shall be linked again.


No idle eloquence upon my grave!
It were ill placed; for what at best am I
But a poor sinner? Yet the Hand to save
Was stretched by Love paternal from on high.
I b'lieve in God, who sent His holy Son
To spread the Gospel glory through the earth;
My spirit I resign to Him alone,
Waiting another and eternal birth.


Farewell! farewell! time shall unite us all,
On the green borders of the immortal shore
Where boundless blessings are the lot of all,
And sin and ignorance mislead no more.
But, revelling in peace, and hope, and love,
Our lives shall a perpetual offering be
To the kind Father who presides above,
And on His children showers felicity:


Till when, submitting to His holy will,
Your spirits shall obey the sweet control,
And, by His mighty hand supported still,
Celestial light shall kindle in your soul.
Following the example by the Saviour given,
Let His great law its sacred sway maintain;
Loving with all your heart the God of Heaven,
And loving as yourself your fellow-men.