MOURN not, friends, mourn not, bereaved, That his earthly race is run; He hath reached the gates celestial, Over death the victory won. Moulded in his Father's image, He the Saviour's footsteps trod; And God claimed his sainted spirit, Ere the body reached the sod. Ah! ye would not then recall him, But a tenement of clay; Bless, oh! bless God, that his mercy, Called his loved one away. Meek and lowly, pure in spirit -- Humble as a little child -- Mighty in his love of Jesus -- He is with the undefiled. Ever ready with his counsel, And his prayers to guide the young; Choirs of redeemed sinners, When he died, the requiem sung. Mourn not, friends, mourn not, bereaved, That his earthly race is run; He hath reached the goal eternal, Over death the victory won. |