I believe death is the end - dust to dust, and we are gone - and to me that thought is a great comfort. Hard to explain why; though Hardy captures something of it in A Drizzling Easter Morning:

And he is risen? Well, be it so...
And still the pensive lands complain,
And dead men wait as long ago,
As if, much doubting, they would know
What they are ransomed from, before
They pass again their sheltering door.

I stand amid them in the rain,
While blusters vex the yew and vane:
And on the road the weary wain
Plods forward, laden heavily;
And toilers with their aches are fain
For endless rest - though risen is he.