Our youth is tran­si­ent like a flow­er,
That blooms, and fades, and dies;
Our life is but a sum­mer cloud,
And like a sha­dow flies;
Then let us heed the warn­ing voice—
Today its call we hear,
It speaks in deep and so­lemn tones,
That come from yon­der bier.

The an­gel messenger of death,
Has gent­ly borne away,
A dear com­pan­ion from our side,
To realms of end­less day;
Her voice no more will join with ours
The song of praise be­low,
It wakes a pur­er, sweet­er strain,
Where on­ly plea­sures flow.

When ga­thered on the Sab­bath morn,
Her va­cant place we view,
We’ll think how bright the world she treads,
And in her steps pur­sue;
Be still, let ev­ery heart be still,
And all our sor­row quell,
We’ll bow sub­mis­sive to His will,
Who do­eth all things well.