Freed from earth and earthly failing,
Lift for him no voice of wailing;
High in heaven's own light he dwelleth;
Full the song of triumph swelleth.
2 Pour not thou the bitter tear;
Heaven its book of comfort opeth:
Bids thee sorrow not, nor fear,
But as one who always hopeth;
Humbly here in faith relying,
Peacefully in Jesus dying,
Heavenly joy his eye is flushing,
Why should thine with tears be gushing?
3 They who die in Christ are blest;
Ours then be no thought of grieving;
Sweetly with their God they rest,
All their toils and troubles leaving;
So be ours the faith that saveth,
Hope, that every trial braveth,
Love, that to the end endureth,
And, through Christ, the crown secureth.
ARK! a voice divides the sky,
Happy are the faithful dead,
In the Lord who sweetly die!
They from all their toils are freed;
Them the Spirit hath declared
Blest, unutterably blest;
Jesus is their great reward,
Jesus is their endless rest.
2 Follow'd by their works they go, Where their Head is gone before; Reconciled by grace below,
Grace hath open'd mercy's door;
Justified through faith alone,
Here they knew their sins forgiven;
Here they laid their burden down,
Hallow'd and made meet for heaven.
F death my friend and me divide,
Thou dost not, Lord, my sorrow chide, Or frown my tears to see; Restrained from passionate excess, Thou bidst me mourn in calm distress For those that rest in Thee.
2 I feel a strong, immortal hope,
Which bears my mournful spirit up,
Beneath its mountain load:
Redeem'd from death, and grief, and pain,
I soon shall find my friend again
Within the arms of God.
3 Pass a few fleeting moments more,
And death the blessing shall restore,
Which death hath snatched away;
For me Thou wilt the summous send,
And give me back my parted friend,
In that eternal day.
Where thy saintly soul has flown,
Tears are wiped away forever,
And all sorrow is unknown:
By the burden of the body
Never more to be opprest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
2 O'er the toilsome way thou'st travel'd,
And endured the heavy load;
Christ hath brought thy footsteps languid
Safely to His blest abode.
Thou art resting now, like Laz'rus,
On thy heavenly Father's breast,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
3 Sin no more can taint thy spirit,
Nor can doubt thy faith assail;
Thou thy welcome hast received,
Now thy strength shall never fail;
And thou'rt sure to meet the holy,
Whom on earth thou loved'st best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
4 To thy grave we sadly bear thee,
There in dust we place thy head;
O'er thee now the turf is pressing,
And all green thy narrow bed.
But thy spirit soars to glory,
Free, among the faithful blest,
here the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
4 When the Lord shall send His summons
Unto us, yet left behind,
May we, by the world untainted,
Gracious welcome with thee find;
Each like thee in peace departing
To the dwellings of the blest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
O to the grave in all thy glorious prime, In all the vigour of thy zeal and power; A Christian cannot die before his time;
The Lord's appointment is the servant's hour.
2 Go to the grave; at noon from labour cease,
Rest on thy sheaves; the harvest-task is done; Come from the heat of battle, and in peace, Soldier, go home; with thee the fight is won.
3 Go to the grave; for there thy Saviour lay
In death's embraces, ere He rose on high;
And all the ransom'd, by that narrow way,
Pass to eternal life beyond the sky.
4 Go to the grave; —no, take thy seat above;
Be thy pure spirit present with the Lord,
Where thou for faith and hope hast perfect love,
And open vision for the written word.
HY should we start, and fear to die?
What tim'rous worms we mortals are!
Death is the gate to endless joy,
And yet we dread to enter there.
2 The pains, the groans, the dying strife,
Fright our approaching souls away;
And we shrink back again to life,
Fond of our prison and our clay.
3 0 if my Lord would come and meet,
My soul would stretch her wings in haste,
Fly fearless through death's iron gate,
Nor feel the terrors as she pass'd.
4 Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are;
While on His breast I lean my head,
And breathe my life out sweetly there.
ND let this feeble body fail,
And let it faint or die;
My soul shall quit this mournful vale,
And soar to worlds on high;
Shall join the disembodied saints,
And find its long-sought rest;
The only bliss for which it pants,
In the Redeemer's breast.
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