Dead

There's an empty seat where the old folks meet,
When they offer their evening prayer,
And a look forlorn, for the dear one gone,
As they gaze on his vacant chair.
There's a silent grief finds never relief,
And a face whence the bloom has fled,
And a maiden fair, in her beauty rare,
Who weeps for her lover - dead.
There's a lonely grave, where a soldier brave,
Lies asleep in the southern land,
While a rusted gun still gleams in the sun,
On the parched and burning sand.
There's a home above, where the good God's love,
Its perfection ever discloses -
Where the soldier is blest with eternal rest,
And his quiet spirit reposes.

by Anonymous Americas

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