He is not dead, but only lieth sleeping
In the sweet refuge of his Master’s breast,
And far away from sorrow, toil, and weeping
He is not dead, but only taking rest.
What tho the highest hopes he dearly cherished
All faded gently as the setting sun;
What tho our own fond expectations perished
Ere yet life’s noblest labors seemed begun.
What tho he standeth at no earthly altar,
Yet in white raiment, on the golden floor,
Where love is perfect, and no step can falter,
He serveth as a priest for evermore!
O glorious end of life’s short day of sadness,
O blessed course so well and nobly run!
O home of true and everlasting gladness,
O crown unfading! and so early won!
Tho tears will fall we bless thee, O our Father,
For the dear one forever with the blest,
And wait the Easter dawn when thou shalt gather
Thine own, long parted, to their endless rest. (Text.)
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