Thy love is more than light—
Thy soothing hand, thy tender tear,
More blessed e’en than sight!
And while that hand is clasped in mine,
My fault’ring steps to guide,
I will not murmur or repine,
Or grieve for aught beside.
But, mother, when I soar away,
From life’s drear darkness free,
Oh! shall I not through heaven’s long day