The Death of Lincoln

 Oh, slow to smit and swift to spare, 
Gentle and merciful and just! 
Who, in the fear of God, didst bear 
The sword of power, a nation's trust! 

In sorrow by thy bier we stand, 
Amid the awe that hushes all, 
And speak the anguish of a land 
That shook with horror at thy fall.
 

Thy task is done; the bond of free; 
We bear thee to an honored grave, 
Whose proudest monument shall be 
The broken fetters of the slave.
 

Pure was thy life; its bloddy close 
Hath placed thee with the sons of light, 
Among the noble host of those 
Who perished in the cause of Right.

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