O think that, while you’re weeping here,

His hand a golden harp is stringing;

And with a voice serene and clear,

His ransomed soul, without a tear,

His Saviour’s praise is singing!

2 And think that all his pains are fled,

His toils and sorrows closed for ever;

While he, whose blood for man was shed,

Has placed upon his servant’s head

A crown that fadeth never!

3 For thus, while round your lowly bier

Surviving friends are sadly bending,

Your souls, like his, to Jesus dear,

Shall wing their flight to yonder sphere,

Faith lightest pinions lending.

4 And thus, when to the silent tomb,

Your lifeless dust like his is given,

Like faith shall whisper, ’midst the gloom,

That yet again in faithful bloom,

That dust shall smile in heaven!