No sorrow know they in their narrow bed;
They sin no more who slumber with the dead;
They are at rest, from earth-born troubles free,—
Fixed is their doom, as lies the stricken tree.
Weep for yourself—for those who linger here,
In pain and sadness, through the varying year;
Still looking through life's vista to the close,
When faith in Christ alone can bring repose.
And weep for those who go to other climes,
With toil and hoarding to gain gold betimes—