When mus­ing sor­row weeps the past,
And mourns the pre­sent pain,
’Tis sweet to think of peace at last,
And feel that death is gain.

’Tis not that mur­mur­ing thoughts arise,
And dread a Fa­ther’s will,
’Tis not that meek sub­miss­ion flies,
And would not suf­fer still:

It is that Heav’n-born faith sur­veys
The path that leads to light,
And longs her ea­gle plumes to raise,
And lose her­self in sight:

It is that hope with ar­dor glows,
To see Him face to face,
Whose dy­ing love no lang­uage knows
Sufficient art to trace.

O let me wing my hal­lowed flight
From earth­born woe and care,
And soar above these clouds of night,
My Sav­ior’s bliss to share!