The bo­som where I oft have lain,
And slept my in­fant hours away,
Will ne­ver beat for me again,
For it lies dead, and wrapped in clay.

How ma­ny were the si­lent pray­ers
My mo­ther of­fered up for me;
How ma­ny were the bit­ter cares
She felt when none but God could see.

Well, she is gone, and now in Heav’n
She sings His praise, who died for her:
And to her hand a harp is giv’n,
And she’s a hea­ven­ly wor­ship­per.

O, let me think of all she said,
And all the kind ad­vice she gave;
And let me do it now she’s dead,
And sleep­ing in her low­ly grave.

And let me choose the path she chose,
And her I soon again may see,
Beyond this world of sin and woes,
With Je­sus, in eter­ni­ty.