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7s. M.


Funeral Hymn of a Child.

To the Father’s love we trust

That which was enshrined in dust;

While we give the earth to earth,

Finds the soul its heavenly birth.

Angels wait the angel child,

Gentle, young, and undefiled.

Said not oft those pleading eyes

That they longed for purer skies?

Did not oft the falling tear

Speak of roughening billows here?

Prayed we not that she might rest

On her Heavenly Father’s breast?

Give the spirit, then, to God,

And its vesture to the sod;

Life, henceforth, shall have a ray

Kindled ne’er to pass away,

And a light from angel eyes

Draw us upward to the skies.

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