After every voice most dear,
Comes a whisper, "Rest not here."
And the rest thou art preparing, is it best, Lord, is it best?
Lord, a little, little longer!
Sobs the earth love, growing stronger;
He will miss me, and go mourning through his solitary days,
And heaven were scarcely heaven
If these lambs that thou hast given
Were to slip out of our keeping and be lost in the world's ways.
Lord, it is not fear of dying,