Within the church­yard, side by side,
Are ma­ny long low graves;
And some have stones set ov­er them,
On some the green grass waves.

Full ma­ny a lit­tle Chris­tian child,
Woman, and man, lies there;
And we pass near them ev­ery time
When we go in to pray­er.

They can­not hear our foot­steps come,
They do not see us pass;
They can­not feel the warm bright sun
That shines up­on the grass.

They do not hear when the great bell
Is ring­ing ov­er­head;
They can­not rise and come to church
With us, for they are dead.

But we be­lieve a day shall come
When all the dead will rise,
When they who sleep down in the grass,
Will ope again their eyes.

For Christ our Lord was buried once,
He died and rose again,
He con­quered death, He left the grave;
And so will Chris­tian men.

So when the friends we love the best
Lie in their church­yard bed,
We must not cry too bit­ter­ly
Over the hap­py dead;

Because, for our dear Sav­ior’s sake,
Our sins are all for­giv’n;
And Chris­tians on­ly fall asleep
To wake again in Heav’n.