O, does not this explain full well each mournful mystery?
Beside her husband’s dying bed the mourning mother stands,
And on his cheek, and on his brow, she lays her trembling hands,
And, bending low her fragile form, she whispers in his ear,
“Our darling boy has gone to Heaven, you know he has, my dear!”
He gazes on his loved one long, and says, with plaintive tone,
“O, yes, our boy has gone to Heaven, and I shall follow soon.”
What makes the mother tremble thus, and close each tearful eye,
And murmur forth, with quiv’ring lip, “O, no, you will not die—
You will not leave me here alone—God will not take away