In vain I try to shirk the question which
Demands the cogitations of my soul.
I know that I shall die, but when or where
Or how? I cannot tell. But when I die
Say shall I live again? 'Tis mystery.
But then it is reveal'd in holy writ
That man shall live again. Nor can I doubt
Nor can it be a thing incredible
That God omnipotent should raise the dead.
But then the puff'd up puny infidel--
Too proud to own a greater than himself--
Who scoffs at truth, says man has got no soul,
That when he dies oblivion seals his fate.
Thus he may think or rather he may wish
That such a death may quench his troubled life.
But such a creed is comfortless to him
Who suffers here and patiently endures
The ills of life in hope of joys to come,
The resurrection is the good man's hope;
But full of dread to that ungodly man
Who fears, but flees not from, the wrath to come.
The sinner conscious of his awful guilt
May justly dread a sin-avenging God;
But then the light that shows a man himself
Illumes the Cross and shows the antidote--
The cleansing blood which purges every stain.
The unbeliever often vainly tries
To stifle conscience with his gloomy creed,
And yet in spite of all his rebel pride
He has his doubts and dark forebodings too.
Anihilation is the skeptic's hope,
And his eternity, a dreamless sleep.
Thus darkness leads to deeper darkness, till
The soul is lost in dark depravity.
O! let my soul mount up and soar beyond
The misty clouds of gloomy unbelief,
And gaze upon the everlasting joys
Which truth reveals, and which both faith and hope
Assure my trusting soul, shall yet be mine.