The Pastor's Funeral.
1 Father, gathered round the bier,
Aid thy weeping children here;
All our stricken hearts deplore
Loss of him we meet no more.
2 Tender are the rites we pay,
Pastor, o'er thy sleeping clay;
We, who late the welcome gave,
Must we bear thee to thy grave?
3 Earth, unto thy faithful trust,
We commit this precious dust,
There, by pain no more oppressed,
Brother, thou wilt sweetly rest.
4 Glorious will that morning break,
When the dead in Christ shall wake;
Joy and grief our bosoms swell,
Brother, pastor, guide, farewell.