"God's Acre"

"God's Acre"

I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls

The burial-ground, "God's Acre!" It is just;

It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

"God's-Acre!" Yes; that blessed name imparts

Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown

The seed that they have garnered in their heart,

Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again

At the great harvest, when the Archangel's blast

Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in perpetual bloom,

In the fair gardens of the second birth,

And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,

And spread the furror for the seed we sow!

This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place where human harvests grow.

Green Gate of Paradise! let in the sun!

Unclose thy portals, that we may behold

Those fields Elysian, where bright rivers run,

And waving harvests bend like seas of gold.

Henry W. Longfellow

New Series 2:38, p. 152

1841.12.25