May kneel in humble trust.
Oft in the hush of secresy and gloom
Hath prayer gone up beside the solemn tomb,
And hope descended to the weary soul!
The foot clings less to mortal weakness there—
Heaven grows more vast—the spirit mounts its sphere
Less bowed to earth’s control.
Give to the winds, the flame, the ocean’s roar,
These strings which to my soul respond no more.
The harp of angels soon these hands shall sweep!