Viewed only by the fee­ble rays
The lamp of hu­man wis­dom lends,
How dark the pro­vi­den­tial ways
That rob us of our dear­est friends!

But yes­ter­day we looked on them
Whose years we count­ed far ahead!
When, lo! the mor­row’s sun looked down
And they we loved so well, are dead.

With eyes be­dimmed and bat­ed breath
We look up­on the pal­lid face,
And won­der why the An­gel Death
Should call them to his cold em­brace.

But, no! We’ll not think thus of them;
’Tis but the mor­tal that is mute;
The same keen frost that breaks the bur
Will sweet­en and ma­ture the fruit.

’Tis hard when earth­ly ties are torn;
The heart will bleed—God made it so;
But, O be­side the point­ed thorn
The frag­rant rose of hope will grow.

We would not quell our heav­ing breast;
We would not check the tears that fall;
For they who knew our loved ones best
Know, too, that they de­serve them all.

But though to­day we weep for them,
Whose voice is hushed, whose hands are chill,
We look be­yond this house of clay,
And think of them as liv­ing still.

To us their me­mo­ry shall be dear,
And when we sing of Je­sus’ love,
We’ll list! Per­haps our hearts may hear
The same sweet song from them above.