Thy Will Be Done.

Sometimes the silver cord of life         Is loosed at one brief stroke;     As when the elements at strife,     With Nature's wild contentions rife,         Uproot the sturdy oak.     Or fell disease, in patience borne,         Attenuates the frame     Till the meek sufferer, wan and worn,     Of energy and beauty shorn,         Death's sweet release would claim.     By instant touch or long decay         Is dissolution wrought;     When, lost to earth, the grave and gay,     The young and old who pass away,         Abide in hallowed thought.     In dear regard together drawn,         Affection's debt to pay,     Fond greetings we exchange at dawn     With one who, ere the day be gone,         Is bruised and lifeless clay.     O thou in manhood's morning-time         With health and hope elate,     For whom in youth's enchanting prime     The bells of promise seemed to chime,         We mourn thy early fate!     To us how sudden - yet to thee         Perchance God kindly gave     Some warning, ere the fatal key     Unlocked the door of mystery         That lies beyond the grave.     Then let us hope that one who found         Such favor, trust, and love,     And cordial praise from all around,     For rare fidelity renowned,         Found favor, too, above.     So "all is well," though swift or slow         God's will be done; and we     Draw near to him, for close and low     Beneath his chastening hand, the blow         Will fall less heavily.