I like that ancient saxon phrase which calls The burial-ground God's Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FLATTERERS by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS TO AN ETHICAL PREACHER by BRENT DOW ALLINSON EJACULATORY PRAYER by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS THE ICONOCLAST by WILLIAM ROSE BENET THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 39. FAREWELL TO JULIET (1) by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE WIDOWER by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF HIS POEMS, FOR CHLORIS by ROBERT BURNS |