Why do we mourn departing friends, Or shake at death's alarms? 'Tis but the voice that Jesus sends, To call them to his arms.
2 Are we not tending upward, too, As fast as time can move? Nor would we wish the hours more slow, To keep us from our love.
3 Why should we tremble to convey Their bodies to the tomb? There the dear flesh of Jesus lay, And scattered all the gloom.
4 The graves of all the saints be blessed, And softened every bed; Where should the dying members rest, But with the dying Head?
5 Thence he arose, ascending high, And showed our feet the way; Up to the Lord we, too, shall fly At the great rising-day.
6 Then let the last loud trumpet sound, And bid our kindred rise; Awake! ye nations under ground; Ye saints! ascend the skies.
And let this feeble body fail, And let it faint or die; My soul shall quit the mournful vale, And soar to worlds on high--
2 Shall join the disembodied saints, And find its long-sought rest; That only bliss for which it pants, In the Redeemer's breast.
3 In hope of that immortal crown I now the cross sustain; And gladly wander up and down, And smile at toil and pain.
4 I suffer on my three-score years, Till my Deliverer come, And wipes away his servant's tears, And takes his exile home.
Why should our tears in sorrow flow When God recalls his own, And bids them leave a world of woe, For an immortal crown?
2 Is not e'en death a gain to those Whose life to God was given? Gladly to earth their eyes they close To open them in heaven.
3 Their toils are past, their work is done, And they are fully blest! They fought the fight, the victory won, And entered into rest.
4 Then let our sorrows cease to flow,-- God has recalled his own; But let our hearts, in every woe, Still say, "Thy will be done!"
I would not live alway; I ask not to stay Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way; The few cloudy mornings that dawn on us here Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer.
2 I would not live alway; no, welcome the tomb! Since Jesus has lain there, I dread not its gloom; There sweet be my rest till he bid me arise, To hail him in triumph descending the skies.
3 Who, who would live alway, away from his God, Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, And the noontide of glory eternally reigns;