I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls <br />The burial-ground God's-Acre! it is just; <br />It consecrates each gave 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 ploughshare, 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-5/
