Sleep Of The Grave Poem by John Bowring

Yes! soon away shall death's deep slumbers roll,
And thou wilt wake, my soul!
And He who fashioned thee
Shall build thee mansions for eternity.


The seed may perish in the wintry earth;
It springs to nobler birth:
The harvest hour shall come,
And the Great Harvest-Lord will reap the tomb.


We shall but slumber long enough to rest
Our passion-wearied breast;
And Who our pillow makes
Shall fill our eyes with light when morning breaks.


Then shall the idle, transitory things
Of earth's imaginings
Fade into mist away,
And the soul revel in an endless day.