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Being Dead, Yet Living
Long, long ago, the man of Bethany
He whom the Saviour loved — in sickness fell,
Died and was buried. Yet he lives again
He being dead yet lives, to die no more.
Toiling and sorrowing, bending 'neath the yoke
Of age — gray hairs, dimmed eyes, enfeebled limbs —
What is there left, old friend, for me and thee?
Where are the joys of youth? where is the scorn
With which we mocked misfortune? where the hope
That beamed from every sky and lured us on?
Gone, gone, all gone! the winter binds us now,
And in our life there's no returning spring!
Soon with our fathers thou and I must sleep
And round our graves the busy world will surge,
Forgetting that we ever died or lived.
Yet being dead we live! if ever once
In genial mood we dropped the generous word
Or penned the loving precept if in prayer
We sought the common Father, and besought
His aid to save the sorely tempted soul
If from a scanty hoard we drew a mite
To help the poor and sorrowing, then, dear friend,
We have not lived in vain we being dead,
Shall live forever in the life of God.
Be comforted 'tis but a little while,
And the dark river that arrests our path
Shall roll behind us while we walk the fields
And climb the Mount Celestial for we know
In whom we have believed, and rest secure
Be comforted rejoice in hope farewell.
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