Whose was the hand that painted thee, O Death! <br />In the false aspect of a ruthless foe, <br />Despair and sorrow waiting on thy breath -- <br />O gentle Power! who could have wronged thee so? <br /> <br />Thou rather shouldst be crowned with fadeless flowers, <br />Of lasting fragrance and celestial hue; <br />Or be thy couch amid funereal bowers, <br />But let the stars and sunlight sparkle through. <br /> <br />So, with these thoughts before us, we have fixed <br />And beautified, O Death! thy mansion here, <br />Where gloom and gladness -- grave and garden -- mixed, <br />Make it a place to love, and not to fear. <br /> <br />Heaven! shed thy most propitious dews around! <br />Ye holy stars! look down with tender eyes, <br />And gild and guard and consecrate the ground <br />Where we may rest, and whence we pray to rise.<br /><br />Henry Timrod<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hymn-consecration-of-magnolia-cemetery/
