In the democracy of the dead all men at last are equal. There is neither rank nor station nor prerogative read more

In the democracy of the dead all men at last are equal. There is neither rank nor station nor prerogative in the republic of the grave.

We are not the worst moments of our lives.
Sister Helen Prejean, author of Dead Man Walking.

We are not the worst moments of our lives.
Sister Helen Prejean, author of Dead Man Walking.

He who died at Azan sends
This to comfort all this friends:
Faithful friends! It lies I read more

He who died at Azan sends
This to comfort all this friends:
Faithful friends! It lies I know
Pale and white and cold as snow;
And ye say, "Abdallah's dead!"
Weeping at the feet and head.
I can see your falling tears,
I can hear your sighs and prayers;
Yet I smile and whisper this:
I am not the thing you kiss.
Cease your tears and let it lie;
It was mine--it is not I.

Men fear death, as if unquestionably the greatest evil, and yet no man knows that it may not be the read more

Men fear death, as if unquestionably the greatest evil, and yet no man knows that it may not be the greatest good.

Death will be a great relief. No more interviews.

Death will be a great relief. No more interviews.

Time rushes towards us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its read more

Time rushes towards us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.

While we are mourning the loss of our friend, others are rejoicing to meet him behind the veil.

While we are mourning the loss of our friend, others are rejoicing to meet him behind the veil.

All say, 'How hard it is that we have to die' - a strange complaint to come from the mouths read more

All say, 'How hard it is that we have to die' - a strange complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to live.

The death-change comes.
Death is another life. We bow our heads
At going out, we think, and read more

The death-change comes.
Death is another life. We bow our heads
At going out, we think, and enter straight
Another golden chamber of the king's
Larger than this we leave, and lovelier.
And then in shadowy glimpses, disconnect,
The story, flower-like, closes thus its leaves.
The will of God is all in all. He makes,
Destroys, remakes, for His own pleasure, all.