And hands were gently folded on her breast,
She sleeps, but in our ears the old hymns ring—
The sweet old hymns that mother used to sing.
The years are passing onward one by one,
And with them changes to the church have come;
The old brown book no longer fills its place;
We struggle now to sing new hymns of grace.
But when the Sabbath evening takes us home,
And we are gathered there with friends alone,
We take the old brown book and once more sing,