Sweetly he rests—while others sigh,
Treading this vale of tears;
Softly his peaceful head doth lie
Forgetful of their cares.
Affection’s tear may flow awhile—
Weak nature’s tribute due:
Some grief is sacred—Jesus wept—
These tears are sacred too.
Yet linger not, fond Parent, here;
Nor bow the weeping head:
No sepulcher entombs the soul—
It knows no earthly bed.
Nor doth oblivion’s endless night
His sleeping spirit shroud:
Far in the heaven of God’s own light
He dwells without a cloud.
Ah! who would mar his glory now,
Or bid him bring again
The cup he fills at God’s own fount,
To viler founts of men?
Let grief, then, cast no sullen shade,
And shed no bitter tear;
Joy that your son a saint is made,
And weep that you are here.
Sweetly he rests—while others sigh
With care and grief opprest;
Softly his blissful head doth lie
Upon his Savior’s breast.
From the pearly gates beyond the stare
Two angels came that day,
And, as ye caught the last fond smile,
They wafted him away.
Oh! to have heard the burst of song,
Through heaven’s arches rolled,
As they bore him in through the shining throng—
A lamb to the Savior’s fold.
Yet will affection mourn him lost
To home and life, and love!
Nay—hush the thought—and say, oh, say,
What bath he found above?
A home, and life, and love he hath:
The home he longed to see—
Life more abundant, without death—
Love in immensity.