Katharine Lee Bates - The Funeral of Phillips Brooks I lyrics

White lies the winter on the weary land, Winter of many a loss and many a grief; Yet must this burial day be counted chief Of sorrows and most sore to understand; For God hath laid the lightning of His hand On His own signal tower, for all too brief A date outsoaring mists of unbelief To drink the living blue, a beacon grand. But whilst the desolate throng without the portal Of solemn Trinity in silence waits, As listening for the beat of pa**ing wing, To view that clay which harbored an immortal, Down the bleak air a tender breath of spring Steals like a waft from Heaven's glad-opening gates.