The living know that they must die,
But all the dead unconscious lie;
Their powers of thought and sense are gone,
Alike unknowing and unknown.
Their hatred and their love are lost,
Their envy buried in the dust;
They have no share in all that’s done
Beneath the circuit of the sun.
Then what my thoughts design to do,
My hands must hasten to pursue;
Since no device, nor work is found,
Nor faith, nor hope, beneath the ground.
(Poem from “Drama of the Ages” by W. H. Branson, p. 204; Copyright 1950, 1953, Southern Publishing Association, Nashville, Tennessee)