Shed no tears, and do not lament:

She has not died,

but on the bosom of Jesus she is resting.

O her husband, broken of heart — weep no more,

And O her grieving sons — weep no more,

And O her daughter, left all alone — weep no more,

For she has only gone home before us.

In the early morning of that day, God was looking down from His majestic heights upon all His children. And His eyes came to rest upon her. Upon our mother, writhing on the bed of pain. And God's great heart trembled with pity — trembled with the pity that never passes away.

And God seated Himself upon His throne. And He turned to that tall, shining angel standing at His right hand:

— Call me Death!

And with a voice like crashing thunder, that tall, shining angel cried:

— Death, Death!

And the echo rolled through the streets of heaven until it reached far away, to that dim place where Death crouches with his pale white horses.

And Death heard the call, and leapt onto a pale horse, as though the light of the moon had been reflected upon it — and it was the swiftest of his steeds. And he urged the horse on down the golden street, and sparks began to fly from the striking of its hooves upon the gold, but their fall was mute. And Death rode upward until he reached the great white throne; and he stood awaiting God's commands. And God said:

— Go down, go down, O Death. Go down and seek out the chaste one whom I want. She has borne her burden, and endured the heat of the day. She has labored long in my vineyard, and she is weary. Go down, O Death, and bring her to me.

And Death did not utter a word, but loosed the rein of his pale white horse, and struck with the whip his flanks where there was no blood, and hurried out through the gate of heaven studded with diamonds, and left behind the suns and the moons and the stars. And Death kept speeding downward.

And we were around her bed, looking at her. And she turned to her right, and looked far away. She was seeing what we could not see: she saw old Death.

She saw old Death, coming down like a star when it falls. But she, our mother, was not terrified at the sight of Death; she gazed at him as at a dear friend. And she murmured:

— I am going home!

And she smiled, and closed her eyes.

And like a little child Death lifted her, lifted her in his arms — and they were of ice. But she felt no chill. And Death mounted his horse again, and rose to the evening star, and passed beyond it to the morning star, and climbed to the gleaming light of glory, and on to the great white throne. And there he laid our mother upon the loving breast, the breast of Jesus.

And Jesus stretched out His hand, and with His hand He wiped away the tears from her eyes, and with His hand He passed over the wrinkles of her face. And the angels sang a short hymn. And Jesus began to rock her in His arms, repeating:

— Rest... rest... rest...

Shed no tears, and do not lament:

She has not died,

but on the bosom of Jesus she is resting.