O mourner! who with tender love,

Hast wept beside some infant grave,

Hast thou not sought a Friend above,

Who died thy little one to save?

2 Then lift thy weary, weeping eye

Above the waves that round thee dwell;

Is not thy darling safe on high?

Canst thou not whisper—It is well?

3 Yes, it is well—though never more

His infant form to earth be given;

He rests where sin and grief are o’er,

And thou shalt meet thy child in heaven.