[Written for the Sentinel]

"No death"

They tell me he has died;
But is he dead?
Do the bright planets circling overhead
Into the morning's blue oblivion slide?
He is not dead;
'Tis only death that died.
Old mysteries to him shall open wide,
New hope be given,
And brightly burn its guiding light to heaven,

Man never died!
But Vigorous, active, strong,—
'Tis natural that all of us belong
To such as these.
Man is what God decrees;
And nothing of a mythologic sense
Can ever trespass on his innocence,
Or make him subject to an Adam-dream.
It was Elohim's plan
That man should have dominion and be free,
In full assurance of his harmony.
For only such a man could well express
The law and order of the universe
Of spiritual perfection, and of peace.
Turn, then, to find surcease
From sorrow's thralldom by denying sense,
Which, through the physical, claims evidence
That man is dead, and death legitimate.
If we give credence to such ignorance,
We fetter faith; and claiming to condense
The Mind of Christ in matter's empty shell,
We cling to earth, as sinners cling to hell.
But all unseen to finite time or tide,
Beyond the limit of a land-locked sea,
O'er wider waters where the great ships glide,
His bark sails onward into harmony.

Yes! he who lived still lives, and loves his place,
Denies the mirage of a mortal's fears;
While death withdraws its terrifying face,
And time lies lightly on his pilgrimage.

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