No other symbol ask I at my grave,
Than the rude cross of Him who came to save
My helpless soul, all tainted through with sin
Till He alone could make and keep it clean. Beneath the shadow of that symbol dear,
I'll rest, secure from all that mortals fear,
Whether among my green ancestral trees,
Or on the dreary shore of frozen seas. No need of friendly hands my turf to weed
Or plant the faithful myrtle's tender seed;
Eyes that must weep for me themselves must close
And find in death their long desired repose,
Till none, of all I love, on earth will dwell
To guard my senseless dust's low citadel. The tramp of ages o'er my grave may sound,
The earthquake shake what seems the solid ground,
And sacrilegious hands perchance may dare
To cast my dust, like ashes, on the air;
Yet He whose will creative doth preside
O'er laws which man would number in his pride,
Still to the hollow of His hand will draw
What men despise by his serenest law,
Nor one least grain will He forget to win
From the dominion of the curse of sin.