2 And thus shall faith’s consoling power The tears of love restrain; O, who that saw thy parting hour, Could wish thee here again!
3 Gently the passing spirit fled, Sustained by grace divine; O, may such grace on us be shed, And make our end like thine!
1057 C. M. Why do we mourn departing friends.
Why do we mourn departing friends, Or shake at death’s alarms? ’Tis but the voice that Jesus sends To call them to his arms.
2 Are we not tending upward, too, As fast as time can move? Nor would we wish the time more slow To keep us from our Love.
3 Why should we tremble to convey Their bodies to the tomb? ’Twas there the flesh of Jesus lay, Amid its silent gloom.
4 The graves of all the saints he blest, And softened every bed; Where should the dying members rest, But with their dying Head?
5 Thence he arose, ascending high, And showed our feet the way; Up to the Lord our souls shall fly, At the great rising day.
6 Then let the last loud trumpet sound, And bid our kindred rise: Awake, ye nations under ground; Ye saints, ascend the skies.
1058 C. M. I will cause the sun to go down at noon. Amos 8:9.
When blooming youth is snatched away By death’s resistless hand, Our hearts the mournful tribute pay, Which pity must demand.
2 While pity prompts the rising sigh, O may this truth, impressed With awful power, “I too must die,” Sink deep in every breast.
3 Let this vain world engage no more; Behold the opening tomb: It bids us seize the present hour: To-morrow death may come.
4 O let us fly—to Jesus fly, Whose powerful arm can save; Then shall our hopes ascend on high, And triumph o’er the grave.
5 Great God thy sovereign grace impart, With cleansing, healing power; This only can prepare the heart For death’s approaching hour.
1059 C. M. Sorrow not. 1 Thess. 4:13.
Not for the pious dead we weep; Their sorrows now are o’er; The sea is calm, the tempest past, On that eternal shore.
2 Their peace is sealed, their rest is sure, Within that better home: Awhile we weep and linger here, Then follow to the tomb.
1060 C. M. John 14.
Let not your hearts with anxious thoughts Be troubled or dismayed: But trust in God your Father’s care, And trust my gracious aid.
2 I to my Father’s house return; There numerous mansions stand, And glory manifold abounds Through all the happy land.
3 I go your entrance to secure, And your abode prepare; Regions unknown are safe to you, When I, your Friend, am there.
4 Thence shall I come when ages close, To take you home with me; There shall we meet to part no more, Where sorrows ne’er shall be.
5 I am the Way, the Truth, the Life; No son of human race, But such as I conduct and guide, Shall see my Father’s face.
1061 C. P. M. They desire a better country. Heb. 11:16.
How happy is the pilgrim’s lot! How free from every anxious thought, From worldly hope and fear! Confined to neither court nor cell, His soul disdains on earth to dwell— He only sojourns here.
2 This happiness in part is mine, Already saved from low design, From every creature-love; Blest with the scorn of finite good, My soul is lightened of its load, And seeks the things above.
3 There is my house and portion fair; My treasure and my heart are there, And my abiding home; For me my elder brethren stay, And angels beckon me away, And Jesus bids me come.
4 I come, thy servant, Lord, replies; I come to meet thee in the skies, And claim my heavenly rest! Soon will the pilgrim’s journey end; Then, O my Saviour, Brother, Friend, Receive me to thy breast!
1062 C. M. Death of a child.
She was the music of our home, A day that knew no night, The fragrance of our garden bower, A thing all smiles and light.
2 Above the couch we bent and prayed In the half-lighted room, As the bright hues of infant life Sank slowly into gloom.
3 The form remained; but there was now No soul our love to share; Farewell, with weeping hearts, we said, Child of our love and care.
4 But years are moving quickly past, And time will soon be o’er; Death shall be swallowed up of life On the immortal shore.
1063 C. M. Victory over death. 1 Cor. 15:55.
O for an overcoming faith To cheer my dying hours, To triumph o’er the monster death, And all his frightful powers.
2 Joyful, with all the strength I have, My quivering lips shall sing, Where is thy boasted victory, grave? And where the monster’s sting?
3 If sin be pardoned, I’m secure— Death has no sting beside; The law gives sin its damning power, But Christ my ransom died.