Blessed, blessed are the dead
In the Lord who die-
Rest the pillow of their head
While they slumb'ring lie:
All their earthly labours done,
Stilled each mortal pain,
Till the Lord, th'Almighty One,
Calls them forth again.
Blessed, blessed are the dead
In the Lord who die;
Radiant is the path they tread
Upwards to the sky.
All the deeds of virtue done,
Deeds of peace and love,
Now are stars of glory strown,
Lighting them above.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem