McKinley

GIVE me thy strong right hand, O Death—
     Thy strong right hand.
With pulsing heart and quickening breath
     Thy dumb command
I note. Where fields celestial are
I see thy citadel afar,
And, just beyond, the evening star—
     I understand!

Show me the darkened way—His way.
     The glass is run,
And with its hour now yields the day
     So sweetly won!
Not ours to name the time or place,
But God’s—God’s endless love and grace; [101][102]
And thus I meet him face to face—
     His will be done!

So kindly Death, with tender care,
     The patient soul
Led on. Soft fell the morning air
     Across the shoal,
Far from the sound of tolling bells,
Where Spiritland its glory tells,
And tides make music of the swells
     Life’s waters roll;

Till, presently, the morn,—the bright
     Eternal morn,
Where, cradled in the Infinite,
     God’s love was born;
And Faith and Hope their vigils keep,
Nor pain for them that wake or sleep, [102][103]
Nor sorrow more for them that weep
     Or them forlorn.

’Twas thus McKinley found the way—
     The narrow one—
And smiled upon the dying day
     At setting sun.
Not ours to name the time or place,
But God’s—God’s endless love and grace.
And so he met Him face to face—
     His will be done!