Thou, who didst stoop below

To drain the cup of woe,

And wear the form of frail mortality,

Thy blesséd labors done,

Thy crown of victory won,

Hast passed from earth—passed to thy home on high.

2 It was no path of flowers,

Through this dark world of ours,

Belovéd of the Father! thou didst tread;

And shall we in dismay

Shrink from the narrow way,

When clouds and darkness are around it spread.

3 O thou who art our Life,

Be with us through the strife;

Thy own meek head with rudest storms was bowed!

Raise thou our eyes above

To see a Father’s love

Beam, like the bow of promise, through the cloud.

4 E’en through the awful gloom

Which hovers o’er the tomb,

That light of love our guiding star shall be;

Our spirits shall not dread

The shadowy way to tread,

Friend, Guardian, Saviour! which doth lead to thee.