With the impress of death on his brow, he is sleeping,
And folded his hands o'er a heart that is still;
Unheeded the grief of the sad mourners, weeping,
No longer their accents his bosom can thrill.
Now deeply we feel that our circle is broken;
No more our lone dwelling shall echo his tread;
His last tear is shed, and the last farewell spoken,
And oft shall we miss him who sleeps with the dead.
O blessed the hope of the Christian to cheer him,
When dim grew his eye, and fast fading his bloom;
In the hour of affliction the Saviour was near him,
The rock of his strength, and his light to the tomb.
No more will he wake from his calm, peaceful slumber,
To the anguish of pain, or the blighting of care;
No more will he join in the songs of our number,
Or mingle his voice at the altar of prayer.
But the once cherished form which the cold turf encloses,
We would not recall, though we cannot forget;
For soft is the bed where he sweetly reposes,
While life's thorny path is with trials beset.
Then mourn not the loss of our dear, absent brother,
Bright angels shall watch o'er the dust where he's laid
To rest by the side of his fondly-loved mother,
Who for his salvation so fervently prayed.
In glory, immortal, O soon shall we meet thee,
Where sickness and sorrow and partings are o'er;
With all the redeemed then with joy shall we greet thee,
With the King in his beauty to reign evermore!