Thou, who didst stoop be­low
To drain the cup of woe,
Wearing the form of full mor­ta­li­ty,
Thy bless­èd la­bors done,
The crown of vic­to­ry won,
Hath passed from earth,
Passed to Thy home on high.

Our eyes be­held Thee not,
Yet hast Thou not for­got
Those who have placed their hope,
Their trust in Thee;
Before Thy Fa­ther’s face
Thou hast pre­pared a place,
That where Thou art,
There they may al­so be.

It was no path of flow­ers
Through this dark world of ours,
Belovèd of the Fa­ther,
Thou didst tread:
And shall we in dis­may
Shrink from the nar­row way,
When clouds and dark­ness
Are around it spread?

O Thou who art our life,
Be with us through the strife,
Thy ho­ly head by earth’s
Fierce storms was bowed;
Raise Thou our eyes above,
To see a Fa­ther’s love,
Beam, like the bow of pro­mise,
Through the cloud.

E’en through the aw­ful gloom
Which hov­ers o’er the tomb,
That light of love our
Guiding star shall be;
Our spir­its will not dread
The sha­dowy way to tread,
Friend, guard­ian, Sav­ior,
Which doth lead to Thee.