William Mercer Green Papers Box 1 Folder 4 Clippings Document 24

THE DEAD BISHOP.

From the summit of Sewanee Mountain there lately arose a cry of exceeding bitterness, and it spread West, South and East until the waves of the Mississippi, of the Gulf, and even the billows of the far-off Atlantic caught up the sound and pealed back an echo of the solemn dirge. It is the wail of the country for a good man gone; it is the cry of the church for its dead bishop; it is the sob of children over a lost father.

A North Carolinian by birth and education, a Tennessean bu residence and a Mississippian by right of bishopric, there were few men better known or more universally beloved than Bishop Green, of the diocese of Mississippi, and his death, which occured at Sewanee on the 13th, has saddened thousands of happy homes throughout the three States. His life was like some sweet tune whose harmony was never jarred by the evil accompaniment of the world, and its last notes like a beautiful vesper hymn, have died away into the silence of the grave.

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me-" Sung above a coffin lid, Underneath all restfully, All life's joys and sorrows hid. Nevermore from wind or tide, Nevermore from billows roll, Wilt thou need thyself to hide! Could the sightless, sunken eyes, Closed beneath the soft gray hair, Could the mute and stiffened lips Move again in pleading prayer, Still, aye still, the words would be: "Let me hide thyself in Thee!"