No, not cold beneath the grasses,
Not close-walled within the tomb;
Rather, in our Father's mansion,
Living, in another room.
Living, like the man who loves me,
Like my child with cheeks abloom,
Out of sight, at desk or schoolbook,
Busy, in another room.
Nearer than my son whom fortune
Beckons where the strange lands loom;
Just behind the hanging curtain,
Serving, in another room.
Shall I doubt my Father's mercy?
Shall I think of death as doom,
Or the stepping o'er the threshold
To a bigger, brighter room?
Shall I blame my Father's wisdom?
Shall I sit enswathed in gloom,
When I know my loves are happy,
Waiting in another room?