OH tell me not of sorrow,
Oh, speak not of despair,
The dawn will break to-morrow
Without our mortal care.
Weep not the withered day-dream,
The sun again will shine;
His hand Who paints the sunbeam
Moves over all, divine.
Oh, tell me not of sorrow,
For from this world of pain,
Life's oars we only borrow
Our native shore to gain.
Earth's bitter hours of sadness
To temper joy combine;
Then wake the harp to gladness,
There is a hand divine.
Oh, tell of smiles forthcoming,
For life is far too brief
To spend in tears and pining
O'er every fallen leaf.
The hearts of those who love us
A wreath of joys entwine,
The hand that moves above us
Is over all, divine.
Life's sweetest flowers decay;
The worm is at the bud;
The bright, the fair, the blithe,
Are swept by death's cold flood.
We may not rule to-morrow,
Nor spare one hour's decline;
Then linger not in sorrow,
There is a hand divine.
If came the winter never,
We should not love the spring;
If sang the birds forever,
They would not seem to sing;
Along life's coasts of weeping
The heavenly beacons shine;
The Watchman guard is keeping,
There is a hand divine.