“You will miss me when I am gone—
At morning, at night, and
noon:
I have needed your arm to lean upon,
I shall need it no longer
soon.
“I’ve been helpless for many years,
‘No burden’
you always said;—
I have claimed your pity, your prayers
and tears
You will miss me when I am
dead.
“How many a dreary night
You have watched by my couch
of pain,
Till the streaming in of morning light—
You will never watch again.
“God taketh not all away
The bitter and sweet he blends,
And I bless his name by night and day
That he has not denied me
friends.
“You have shared the heavy load,
Which alone I could not have
borne;
I am going now to a bright abode,
But I leave you, alas! to
mourn.
“You will miss me when I am gone,
As you never have missed before!
I have needed your arm to lean upon
But soon I shall need it no
more.
“I lean on my Saviour’s breast
In this hour of mortal pain;
Oh, strong are His arms! and sweet my
rest!
Farewell! till we meet again.”
The expected hour though long of coming arrived at
last. As long as she seemed to realize what was
transpiring around her, and when too weak to converse,
she would signify by a word or motion that she had
peace and all was well. About a quarter past 11
o’clock Friday night, March 13, 1863, “the
silver cord was loosed,” and she sweetly fell
asleep in Jesus, aged twenty-eight years, four months,
and sixteen days. On the Tuesday following we
buried her from the village church, where ten years
before she had decided to come out openly on the Lord’s
side. It was crowded. Three ministers, from
as many different denominations, assisted me in the
services. Her mother and sister (the wife of
Dr. G. O. Somers) were too feeble to attend. But
we hope soon to greet her where—to use
her own words,
“Earthly love
is like the starlight lost
In glorious sunshine, and the things of
time
Shrink into nothing: even death itself
Fades like a shadow in the noontide blaze,
And life—new, glorious, everlasting
life—
Expands the soul, and all it ever dreamed
Of heavenly bliss becomes reality.”
Above the stillness of death we hear the words of
inspiration: “Precious in the sight of
the Lord is the death of his saints”; “Thy
dead shall live again”; and in hope we wait.
The weary pilgrim has reached her resting-place.
She lies in the chamber of Peace, whose windows open
toward the sunrising.
Thou King of kings, Almighty One!
bend unto me the ear
That listens to the music
of every rolling sphere,
And guide, oh guide my feeble hand
to strike my slumbering lyre
To strains harmonious and divine,
and every thought inspire.
