No more shall custom dash my coward heart,
Nor shadowy forms nor gloomy fears o’erpower
My soul, that waits the cold, dark, final hour:
Soul! be thyself, arm, courage is thy part.
If Death, though clad in sorrow’s sable weeds,
Bring peace, a stranger to my troubled breast,
I’ll give him welcome so he give me rest,
And thank him as his brandish’d dart he speeds.
Forgive me that I harbour’d childish fears
Of thee, the struggling soul who comest to aid,
As now the disentangled mesh it clears,
Mortality’s frail snare: no more afraid
I welcome thee with smiles, not greet with tears,
For well I know my Ransom hath been paid.