Deep down be­neath th’un­rest­ing surge
There is a peace­ful tomb;
Storm raves above, calm reigns be­low;
Safe, safe from ocean’s wreck and woe;
Safe from its tide’s un­ceas­ing flow,
The wea­ry find a home.

Calm shel­ter from time’s vex­ing winds;
Sure an­chora­ge at last!
The blind­ing sea-drift blinds not here;
No break­er’s boom the sleep­ers fear,
No an­gry ty­phoon ho­vers near
Their lat­est storm is past.

Done now with per­il and with toil,
They sleep the bless­èd sleep.
The last wild hur­ri­cane is o’er;
All si­lent now life’s thun­der-roar,
All qui­et now the wreck-strewn shore;
’Tis we, not they, who weep.

Who dies in Christ the Lord dies well,
Though on the lone­ly main;
As soft the pil­low of the deep,
As tran­quil the un­cur­tained sleep
As on the couch where fond ones weep;
And they shall rise again.

Not saf­er on the sea of glass
Before the throne of God!
As sac­red is that ocean cave,
Where weeds in­stead of myr­tles wave;
As near to God that un­known grave,
As the dear church­yard’s sod.

O’er the loved clay God sets His watch,
The an­gels guard it well,
Till sum­moned by the trum­pet loud,
Like star em­erg­ing from the cloud,
Or blos­som from its shel­ter­ing shroud,
It leaves its ocean cell.

The sea shall give them back, though death
The well known form de­stroy;
Nor rock, nor sand, nor foam can chain,
Nor mor­tal pri­son house re­tain;
Each atom shall awake again,
And rise with song and joy.

The cold sea’s cold­est, hard­est depths
Shall hear the trump of God;
Death’s reign on sea and land is o’er,
God’s trea­sured dust he must re­store;
God’s bur­ied gems he holds no more,
Beneath or wave or clod.

When the cold pil­low co­vered them,
No so­lemn pray­er was said;
Yet not the less their crown shall be
In the great morn of vic­to­ry,
When, from their mor­tal fet­ters free,
They leave their peace­ful bed.

What though to speak the words of love
No dear ones then should come.
Without a name up­on their bier,
A bro­ther’s or a sis­ter’s tear,
Their Hea­ven will be as bright and near
As from their boy­hood’s home.

Star of the pro­mised morn­ing, rise!
Star of the throb­bing wave,
Ascend! and o’er the sa­ble brine
With re­sur­rect­ion splen­dor shine;
Burst through the clouds with beams di­vine,
Mighty to shine and save.

O Morn­ing Star! O ris­en Lord!
Destroyer of the tomb!
Star of the liv­ing and the dead,
Lift up at length Thy long veiled head,
O’er land and sea Thy glo­ries shed;
Light of the morn­ing, come!

Into each tomb Thy ra­di­ance pour,
Let life, not death, pre­vail,
Make haste, great Con­quer­or, make haste!
Call up the dead of ag­es past,
Gather Thy pre­cious gems at last,
From ocean’s deep­est vale.

Speak, migh­ty Life, and wake the dead!
Like sta­tue from the stone,
Like mu­sic from long brok­en strings,
Like gush­ings from de­serted springs,
Like dew up­on the dawn’s soft wings,
Rouse each be­lov­èd one!