On Canaan's border land,
By Jordan's watery gates,
The host of Israel waits;--
They mourn the Guiding-Hand.
With firm, free step he trod
On Pisgah's mountain crest;
He laid him down to rest;
Alone! save with his God.
He sighed no faint farewell;
No murmuring refrains
Out-echoed angel strains;
Nor tolled dull funeral knell.
Thus, as in days gone by
Great leader! careful guide!
God called thee hence, aside;
We might not see thee die.
Yet we have seen--may see
Thy work of nobler life;
The courage through the strife;
Deeds testify of thee.
Rest well! Oh silvered head!
Voice ever prone to bless,
To soothe the soul's distress,
Peace to thy lowly bed!
Though next thy heart, thine own;
Thy sympathies, world wide
Flowed, with unstinted tide;
Bedewed each mortal zone.
Rest well! ye feet which trod
That straight and narrow way
Illumed of purer ray;
Quintessence of our God.
Soul! which hath soared afar,
Beyond the flight of time;
In calm, congenial clime,
No ills thy joys may mar.
Fair spirit! just and wise;
Kind heart of largess love!
Christ-life, all creeds above;
Rest thou in kindred skies.
More glorious eve's bright sun,
More dull seems dolesome night;
So, lost thy glorious light;
And yet--Heaven's will be done.