Upon the holy book from which he read
Who sleeps, at length, in peace, among the silent dead.
Yet from on high
He looketh on us—widow, daughter, son—
Pointing the course by which he glory won.
He still is nigh,
On angel’s wings, to comfort us and guide,—
Unseen, but not unfelt, forever by our side.
Father in heaven!
Who hast called home the leader of our band,