From the Office of the Burial of a Child221
Lord, rest the child; cut off at morning hour,
Crushed as a bud before it came to flower;
Gone as the star that lent its feeble ray,
Ere yet the morn had brightened into day.
Lord, rest the child; no bliss on earth was thine,
Drink now the pleasures of the life divine;
Here streams that gladden, when the sun is high,
Shrink in their channels, 'neath a burning sky.
Lord, rest the child; within the heavenly place,
Thine angel ever views the Father's face;
Thine is the kingdom, and to claim His own,
Christ left the glory of a kingly throne.
Lord, rest the child; we will not weep for thee—
Death is not death to those with Christ that be;
Mourn we with weeping, that the sin is ours,
To blight the beauty of earth's fairest flowers.