Death camest down with dark, cold hand,
And took away one of our band,
The sweetest, gentlest of us all,
And placed o'er her the raven pall,
On which we scattered lilies white,
And laid them low, far out of sight.
In the grave we look not now
For her who wore the snowy brow.
The form that held that soul so rare
We know doth rest in silence there;
But all the light hath risen above,
Where angels dwell in peace and love.
Forever now thy soul wilt be
At rest in heaven, from sorrow free;
And thou wilt gaze upon the form
Of Him who breasted all the storm
Of God's just wrath, and through whose love
Thou didst so sweetly pass above.
When thou with all the ethereal band
Dost float, with golden harp in hand,
And waftest near this distant world,
Oh, deign to pause with wings unfurled,
And kiss away the falling tear
We shed for thee, we loved so dear!
