In vain my fan­cy strives to paint
The mo­ment after death;
The glor­ies that sur­round the saints,
When yield­ing up their breath.

One gen­tle sigh their fet­ters breaks,
We scarce can say, They’re gone!
Before the will­ing spir­it takes
Her man­sion near the throne.

Faith strives, but all its ef­forts fail,
To trace her in her flight;
No eye can pierce with­in the veil
Which hides that world of light.

Thus much (and this is all) we know,
They are com­plete­ly blest;
Have done with sin, and care, and woe,
And with their Sav­ior rest.

On harps of gold they praise His name,
His face they al­ways view;
Then let us fol­low­ers be of them,
That we may praise Him too.

Their faith and pa­tience, love and zeal,
Should make their me­mo­ry dear;
And, Lord, do Thou the pray­ers ful­fill,
They of­fered for us here.

While they have gained, we los­ers are,
We miss them day by day;
But Thou canst ev­ery breach re­pair,
And wipe our tears away.

We pray, as in Eli­sha’s case,
When great Eli­jah went,
May double por­tions of Thy grace,
To us who stay, be sent.