Away from his home and the friends of his youth,

He hasted, the herald of mercy and truth,

For the love of his Lord, and to seek for the lost:

Soon, alas! was his fall—but he died at his post.

2 The stranger’s eye wept, that, in life’s brightest bloom,

One gifted so highly should sink to the tomb;

For in ardor he led in the van of the host,

And he fell like a soldier—he died at his post.

3 He wept not himself that his warfare was done—

The battle was fought, and the victory won;

But he whispered of those whom his heart clung to most,

“Tell my brethren, for me, that I died at my post.”

4 He asked not a stone to be sculptured with verse;

He asked not that fame should his merits rehearse;

But he asked as a boon, when he gave up the ghost,

That his brethren might know that he died at his post.

5 Victorious his fall—for he rose as he fell,

With Jesus, his Master, in glory to dwell:

He has passed o’er the stream, and has reached the bright coast,

For he fell like a martyr—he died at his post.

6 And can we the words of his exit forget?

O! no; they are fresh in our memory yet:

An example so worthy shall never be lost,

We will fall in the work—we will die at our post.