Blesséd are they in His love that have died;
Heart! let thy throbbings be constant to prayer,
So thou wouldst dwell where thy cherished ones are!
Turn! turn, look down through the vale
Stretching before thee, where, saddened and pale,
Sorrow is beck’ning thee—sorrow and wrong—
Weak though thine arm may be, feeble thy song,
God smileth aye, on the small “precious seed,”
Making the harvest-time golden indeed!
Thou hast been sleeping; wake from thy dreams!