LIFT not thou the wailing voice;
Weep not, 'tis a Christian dieth;
Up, where blessed saints rejoice,
Ransomed now, the spirit flieth;
High in heaven's own light, she dwelleth,
Full, the song of triumph swelleth:
Freed from earth, and earthly failing,
Lift for her, no voice of wailing.
Pour not thou, the bitter tear;
Heaven, its book of comfort, opeth;
Bids thee sorrow not, nor fear,
Rut as one, who always hopeth:
Humbly, here, in faith relying,
Peacefully, in Jesus dying,
Heavenly joy, her eye is flushing:
Why should thine, with tears, be gushing?
They, who die in Christ, are blest;
Ours, then, be no thought of grieving;
Sweetly, with their God, they rest,
All their toils, and troubles, leaving:
So, be ours, the faith that saveth,
Hope, that every trial, braveth,
Love, that to the end endureth,
And, through Christ, the crown secureth.