THOU art gone from us, my brother; there is dust up on thy brow,
And coldness, in that kindly heart, which ne'er was cold, till now;
And sweet and undisturbed, thy sleep, beneath that chancel stone,
Where pious hands, thy couch, have spread; and thou art left alone.

Thou art taken from us, brother; all thy cares, and labours, done,
When, to our short-reaching vision, they had seemed, but just begun;
And long before its noon was reached, thy heaven-enkindled ray,
Was lost, as stars, by sunlight fade, in cloudless, endless day.

Thou art torn from us, my brother; and our hearts are bleeding still,
Yet, taught by thee, in silence, bow to Heaven's all-righteous will,
And bless the grace, which, to thy life, such heavenly radiance, gave,
To cheer us, while on earth we walk, and light us through the grave.

Thou art gone before us, brother; yet we have no tears to shed,
For we know, that thou art numbered, with the blessed, holy dead;
And in that "continuing city," to which we may never come,
Hast found, through faith in Christ our Lord, a welcome and a home!

1827.

Project Canterbury