While from its far celestial throne
    The immortal body, victor now,
    Shall watch its old tormentor bow
  And in eternal tortures groan.

  Why do the clamorous mourners wail
    In bootless sorrow murmuring? 
    And why doth grief unreasoning
  God’s righteous ordinance assail?

  Hushed be your voices, ye that mourn;
    Ye weeping mothers, dry the tear;
    Let none lament for children dear,
  For man through Death to Life is born.

  So do dry seeds grow green again,
    Now dead and buried in the earth,
    And rising to a second birth
  Clothe as of old the verdant plain.

  Take now, O earth, the load we bear,
    And cherish in thy gentle breast
    This mortal frame we lay to rest,
  The poor remains that were so fair.

  For they were once the soul’s abode,
    That by God’s breath created came;
    And in them, like a living flame,
  Christ’s precious gift of wisdom glowed.

  Guard thou the body we have laid
    Within thy care, till He demand
    The creature fashioned by His hand
  And after His own image made.

  The appointed time soon may we see
    When God shall all our hopes fulfil,
    And thou must render to His will
  Unchanged the charge we give to thee.

  For though consumed by mould and rust
    Man’s body slowly fades away,
    And years of lingering decay
  Leave but a handful of dry dust;

  Though wandering winds, that idly fly,
    Should his disparted ashes bear
    Through all the wide expanse of air,
  Man may not perish utterly.

  Yet till Thou dost build up again
    This mortal structure by Thy hand,
    In what far world wilt Thou command
  The soul to rest, now free from stain?

  In Abraham’s bosom it shall dwell
    ’Mid verdant bowers, as Lazarus lies
    Whom Dives sees with longing eyes
  From out the far-off fires of hell.

  We trust the words our Saviour said
    When, victor o’er grim Death, he cried
    To him who suffered at His side
  “In Mine own footsteps shalt thou tread.”

  See, open to the faithful soul,
    The shining paths of Paradise;
    Now may they to that garden rise
  Which from mankind the Serpent stole.

  Guide him, we pray, to that blest bourn,
    Who served Thee truly here below;
    May he the bliss of Eden know,
  Who strayed in banishment forlorn.

But we will honour our dear dead
With violets and garlands strown,
And o’er the cold and graven stone
Shall fragrant odours still be shed.

XI.  HYMNUS viii.  KALENDAS IANUARIAS

  Quid est, quod artum circulum

sol iam recurrens deserit? 
Christusne terris nascitur,
qui lucis auget tramitem?

  Heu quam fugacem gratiam 5

festina volvebat dies,
quam pene subductam facem
sensim recisa extinxerat!