to a Summer-land

The little birds trust God, for they go singing

From northern woods where autumn winds have blown,

With joyous faith their trackless pathway winging

To summer-lands of song, afar, unknown.

Let us go singing, then, and not go sighing:

Since we are sure our times are in His hand,

Why should we weep, and fear, and call it dying?

'Tis only flitting to a Summer-land.

-Anon.

Death is not dying.

Jesus said unto her,

I am the resurrection,

and the life:

he that believeth in me,

though he were dead,

yet shall he live:

And whosoever liveth and believeth in me

shall never die.

Believest thou this?

John 11:25-26