With angels bright, and loved ones gone before,
In their Redeemer’s presence evermore,
And God himself their Lord, and Judge, and King.
And this we call a loss! O selfish sorrow
Of selfish hearts! O we of little faith!
Let us look round, some argument to borrow,
Why we in patience should await the morrow,
That surely must succeed the night of death.
Aye, look upon this dreary, desert path,
The thorns and thistles wheresoe’r we turn;