I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls <br /> The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; <br />It consecrates each grave within its walls, <br /> And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. <br /> <br />God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts <br /> Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown <br />The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, <br /> Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. <br /> <br />Into its furrows shall we all be cast, <br /> In the sure faith, that we shall rise again <br />At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast <br /> Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. <br /> <br />Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, <br /> In the fair gardens of that second birth; <br />And each bright blossom mingle its perfume <br /> With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth. <br /> <br />With thy rude ploughahare, Death, turn up the sod, <br /> And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; <br />This is the field and Acre of our God, <br /> This is the place where human harvests grow!<br /><br />Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/god-s-acre/
