There Remaineth Therefore a Rest, In the grave will be no space

In the grave will be no space
  For the purple of the proud—
  They must mingle with the crowd:
  In the wrappings of a shroud
Jewels would be out of place.

There no laughter shall be heard,
  Nor the heavy sound of sighs:
  Sleep shall seal the aching eyes:
  All the ancient and the wise
There shall utter not a word.

Yet it may be we shall hear
  How the mounting skylark sings
  And the bell for matins rings:
  Or perhaps the whisperings
Of white Angels sweet and clear.

What a calm when all is done,
  Wearing vigil, prayer, and fast!
  All fulfilled from first to last:
  All the length of time gone past
And eternity begun.

Fear and hope and chastening rod
  Urge us on the narrow way:
  Bear we still as best we may
  Heat and burden of the day,
Struggling, panting up to God.