They do not wildly weep, and mourn thy fate,
Thus early call’d to that eternity
Where perfect joys the ransom’d soul await.
O, not with tears and hearts disconsolate
Art thou lamented! While we mourn our loss,
’Tis joy on thy great bliss to meditate;
And thus we learn to count as only dross,
All other objects save our dear Redeemer’s cross.
XX.
That cross, my sister! was thy constant theme;