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O Death, the Consecrator!
Nothing so sanctifies a name
As to be written--Dead.
Nothing so wins a life from blame,
So covers it from wrath and shame,
As doth the burial-bed.


O Death, the revelator!
Our deepest passions never move
Till thou hast bid them wake;
We know not half how much we love
Till all below and all above
Is shrouded for our sake.


O Death, the great peacemaker!
If enmity hath come between
There's naught like death to heal it;
And if we love, O priceless pain,
O bitter-sweet, when love is vain!
There's naught like death to seal it.