Yes! Thou didst hear it; that bitter cold night
When the ground was crisp with its coat of white.
Thou sentest Thy angels to bear him away
From his storm-beaten garb of fragile clay.
Tired-out, aching limbs! weary frozen feet!
Ceaseless, toilsome toil! rest—Ah sweet! how sweet!
No mourner knelt down by that lowly bed;
No kindly hand pillowed that dying head.
Nought, save the starlights of loftier space
Beamed tenderly over that still, pale face.
What matter! the billows may rage and foam,
The heaven-bound soul will reach its home.
What matter! the sorrows of earth are o'er;
He hath landed safe on love's native shore.
Where glory-lit mansions resound with joy;
For the mother who lost, hath found her boy.
And glad Hallelujahs bright seraphim sing;
For the once hired boy is a crownèd king.
