In its little coffin an infant lay;
The parents wept, but a calm serene
Stole over their souls, as a hand unseen
Gently wiped the trickling tears away.
“Your God beholds, and will not forget;
Your bud shall blossom in glory yet!”
Happy such to whom griefs come not in vain,
Though afflictions bow, or the world contemn,
Thrice blest in sorrow, thrice blest in pain,
Reproach is honour, and loss is gain,